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PARIS 

THE MAGIC CITY BY THE .SEIlsrE 



PARIS 

The Magic City by the Seine 



BY 

GERTRUDE HAUCK VONNE 




THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

440 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YOR] 

MCMXVIII 






Copyright, 1918, by 
The Neale Publishing Company 



18 itiiB n : "/ 



Gi.A5fl8635 



DEDICATED TO THE FRENCH PEOPLE 

AND TO 

THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface 9 

CHAPTER 

I. From Brussels to Paris. First Impressions . 15 

II. The Moulin Rouge. Other Diversions . . 26 

III. The Morgue. Parisian "Cabbies." The Arc 

De Triomphe. The Bois De Boulogne . 33 

IV. Paris by Moonlight. A Students' Cafe . , 42 
V. Memories of Napoleon. Hotel Des Invalides 47 

VI. A Trip to Suresnes. Souvenirs of Voltaire. 

Table Manners 57 

VII. The Luxembourg Gardens. Free Amusements. 

Workmen 67 

VIII. The Venus of Milo. The Louvre ... 74 

IX. The Bourse. A Rainy Day .... 84 
X. En Pension. Bathing in Paris. The Julien 

Atelier. Nursemaids 87 

XI. L'lLE De La Cite. The Conciergerie. Sainte 

Chapelle. Notre Dame loi 

XII. Old Parisian Streets. Jean Valjean . . 116 

XIII. The Pantheon. Voltaire's Funeral . . . 128 

XIV. Church of Saint Severin. Saint Gervais. 

Other Churches. The Madeleine. The 

Markets 132 

XV. A MusicALE. French Friendliness. Anec- 
dotes 151 

XVI. Cafe-Concerts. Cab Horses. Paris Crowds . 157 
XVII. The Tomb of Marie Bashkirtseff . . .163 

XVIII. The Luxembourg Gallery 171 

XIX. Picnicking in the Bois De Boulogne. French 

Customs 176 

XX. Art-Student Life. Ecole Des Beaux Arts. 

Sevres. Saint Cloud 181 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



CHAPTER 

XXI. The Sorbonne. A Visit to the Jardin Des 

Plantes 

XXII. The Mona Lisa. The Message of Leonardo Da 
Vinci. The Paintings in the Louvre . 

XXIII. Saint Germain-L'Auxerrois. The Gardens of 

THE Tuileries. The Gobelin Industry 

XXIV. Church of the Sacred Heart. Buttes-Chau- 

MONT. MONTMARTRE. PeRE-LaCHAISE 

XXV. A Sunday Jaunt in the Environs. An Old- 
World Inn. Malmaison 

XXVI. Versailles 

XXVII. The Two Trianons 

XXVIII. The Humbert Affair 

XXIX. Notre Dame De Consolation. The Musee De 

Cluny. French Women. The Chatelet 
XXX. Window Shopping. Kid Gloves and Mobs. The 

Church Schools and the Government . 
XXXI. French Hospitality. Chatou . . . . 
XXXII. Life in a French Home, Church Affairs. 
Charenton. The Bois De Vincennes. Choos- 
ing A Gown 

XXXIII. The Grand Opera. Le Theatre Franqais 

XXXIV. The Humbert Auction. Military Mass at Les 

Invalides. Meudon. St. Germain 
XXXV. Cafe Du Neant. Other Cafes 
XXXVI. The Palais Royal. Fairs. The Races. The 

French "Fourth of July" 
XXXVII. Musee Carnavalet 
XXXVIII. The Salon. Church of Saint 
Paul. National Library 
XXXIX. Saint Denis. Fontainebleau 



Vincent De 



PAGE 

189 

192 

214 

220 

240 
247 
257 
263 

265 

274 
283 

289 
297 

312 

333 

340 
344 



PREFACE 

My thoughts were the farthest possible from war 
when I was last in Paris, shortly before the war was 
declared. Had I had an inkling of the fate that 
was even then in preparation for humanity, I would 
have looked at life there from a different angle, and 
would have written my book from that angle. But 
I had no such knowledge. Who had? 

During the three years that I spent in Paris the 
greater part of my time was devoted to viewing the 
beautiful things to be seen in that wonderful city, — 
the exquisite works of art, the churches, the the- 
aters, and all the splendid works produced by the 
hand of man. These things were all seen in the time 
of peace; this book was written in time of peace; 
hence the spirit of war is far removed from its pages. 

There were other things to be seen in Paris. Per- 
haps there is a disagreeable side to life even in glori- 
ous France; but I felt that I, a stranger, had no 
right to seek it out and bring it back with me to dole 
out to my friends. Hence there is very little of the 
disagreeable to be encountered in my book. 

My book concerns those things of history, of art, 
of beauty, that are of interest to every intelligent 
American. War is being waged over there now, — 
fearful war, full of terrible deeds. But France is 



lo PREFACE 

France, and Paris Is Paris. They have not 
changed, — only conditions have. 

Our men are going over to France by the thou- 
sands, — are going valiantly into the conflict. Know- 
ing what has already taken place at the front, they 
would be more than human not to shrink inwardly 
and momentarily from that which they are about 
to face. 

But our brave men, even with that momentary 
shrinking, appreciate to the fullest extent the mean- 
ing of liberty, democracy and "My Country"; and 
in answer to the world's call, they go ! They go 
that our friends and brothers across the sea may 
also come to have the same appreciation of the 
meaning of liberty and democracy as have we, but 
we assume that they will come back to us once again. 
Most of them will,- — very likely. 

Immediately upon leaving the shores of America 
our men will plunge into quite a different atmos- 
phere. The first feeling of regret over, eagerly will 
their minds travel the leagues that lie between these 
shores and the fascinating land of France. The very 
name fascinates. 

What is the fascination of France, — of Paris? 
We all love them, yet we seem unable to explain our 
attachment. 

Some knowledge of France, of how the French 
people live, of their religious ideas, their amuse- 
ments, cannot fail to be of interest to those who are 
about to set out for that land. In this world there 
are things infinitely more beautiful than the acquisi- 



PREFACE II 

tlon of dollars or the pursuit of those things repre- 
sented by dollars. 

A visit to France might easily be considered one of 
those things, and let us hope that that is what their 
going will mean to most of our men : merely a visit 
to France. 

They are going, let us hope, to Paris, too. Not 
alone are they going to fight but to see and learn 
all they possibly can of that wonderful life that 
through ages has pulsated on French soil. Only the 
man who finds pleasure in the works of man can find 
pleasure in man himself. Man is wonderful! And 
wonderful are the works of man ! Life in France is 
itself a work of art; there is nothing in the world 
finer. 

What a privilege for our men! Thousands and 
thousands of them are going over, — men who have 
never been away from their own shores; and now 
they are to see France ! What a privilege for them, 
indeed. 

One cannot fail to be impressed with the beauti- 
ful boulevards of Paris, with its tree-lined streets, 
its historical churches, its art, its life. The city, 
the whole land, is filled with things that are of im- 
mense interest to humanity, especially to that portion 
of it that travels about in the world with seeing eyes 
and hearts attuned. A glance at Notre Dame, at 
the Place de la Concorde, at the Arc de Triomphe, 
and at a thousand other places, will aid them to re- 
construct the bygone scenes of the marvelous his- 
tory of France. It probably would not be possible 



12 PREFACE 

to go to France, — to Paris, — and not give some 
thought to the past. 

A stroll about the ancient thoroughfares, — many 
of which are soon to be cut away and replaced by 
new, modern boulevards, avenues, and streets, — will 
provide an abundance of material for the imagina- 
tion of our men. 

It will be a very difficult matter for men to detach 
themselves sufficiently from the excitement of war- 
fare to appreciate to any great degree much of what 
is to be seen ; but I hope that many of them will im- 
prove the golden opportunity that is to be given 
them, because of the pleasure it will be to them in 
the after years, when they are back once more in 
their own land. 

There are places in which one glance will do more 
for the onlooker than any amount of reading and 
musing over books, and such a place I believe Paris 
to be. 

In no instance have I attempted to speak with 
the air of the historian, or of one with acknowledged 
authority; but it would be a great pleasure to me if 
I could reproduce in the minds of our men some- 
thing of the impressions I myself derived from my 
visit to the beautiful city of Paris,- — if I could con- 
vey to them some slight impression of the magnifi- 
cence of the city, of its art, its intellect, and its pleas- 
ures. 

My journey to Paris was started from Brussels, 
which was then an exquisite city. To-day I cannot 
imagine how it looks. 



PREFACE 13 

Arras, Amiens, and other places that I have 
slightly mentioned have been wrecked. A great bat- 
tle has been fought at Arras since those exquisite, 
peaceful days that I knew. 

It is difficult for me to imagine how things over 
there now look, but, at any rate, I hope that what I 
have written in my book may prove interesting to 
many of our men and may be to them the means of 
acquiring considerable more knowledge than they 
would otherwise have gained. If I have excited any 
curiosity in their minds, this will undoubtedly be the 
result, Gertrude Hauck Vonne. 



PARIS 



CHAPTER I 

FROM BRUSSELS TO PARIS. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 

I EXPERIENCED a feeling of depression, if not of 
actual sadness, at leaving beautiful Brussels, even 
though, looming fairylike through the mists of the 
unknown, the unseen, was Paris — Paris! — where, it 
is said, all good Americans go when they die. 

The boulevards of Brussels had never looked so 
beautiful and inviting to us as they did on the morn- 
ing of our departure. But, it was only a short time 
until we were again in one of the funny little trains, 
speeding on our way to Paris. 

Our train was a "corridor train," and our com- 
partment was upholstered in a soft shade of gray 
cloth ; and on the backs of the sofalike seats were — 
shades of grandmother's parlor! — lace "tidies," 
crocheted of coarse white cotton. 

The train was crowded, and we had only barely 
enough room in which to sit closely together, — not 
an inch in which to "spread out." 

We were all in a quiet mood, and just sat there, 

15 



i6 PARIS 

idly watching our fellow-travelers and getting such 
views of the fleeting landscape as we could. 

There seemed to be all kinds of people on the 
train, — ^types entirely different from any I had yet 
seen; people who seemed to be flustered and in a 
hurry; people calm and polished; people who, like 
ourselves, did not seem to care a rap where they 
were going. 

On and on we sped ! 

In a subconscious way, I was cognizant of all 
my companions, but of none of them in any special 
way, other than to yield to the strange thoughts 
concerning them, — thoughts only half formed, — 
that flitted from time to time through my brain: 
speculating as to who they were, whence they had 
come, whither they were going, and of how strangely 
and unexpectedly people come into our lives. Here 
was this whole trainful of people, none of whom 
I had ever seen before, — people with whom I per- 
haps could not even communicate in their own 
tongue, but here they were, and here was I, and we 
were all on the road to the wondrous city. 

After floating about in a sea of speculative thought 
for a time, delving into the world of art, and roam- 
ing far from the things of everyday life, it gives one 
somewhat of a shock to suddenly look out and dis- 
cover, away off on the horizon, a lot of smoking fac- 
tory chimneys sending long columns of black smoke 
spiraling through the clear sky, and to be recalled 
to the fact that Belgium is a manufacturing country 
as well as a land of art. 



THE MAGIC CITY 17 

Smoke and factories ! Dozens of factories and 
mills! However, one must not be foolish and re- 
fuse to see these signs of Belgium's industries, but 
remember, as Huet says, that "It was at all times the 
liberal, money-making hand of the merchant and 
manufacturer which, in rivalry with the prince's and 
prelate's, smoothed the paths to the beautiful." It 
has always been these princes of the manufacturing 
world who have made the way for the princes of 
the paint brush, of architecture, and of all the differ- 
ent departments of the art world. Business seems 
to come first, — even in this beautiful country. 

Village after village sped past us. In passing 
Arras, all I could think of was that it had been the 
home of the terrible Robespierre when he was only 
a poor, struggling lawyer. 

I sort of woke up and came to myself with a start 
when Amiens was called out. Amiens? I received 
only a confused impression of clustered houses with 
high, peaked roofs, and dormer windows, over- 
shadowed by a huge, magnificent Gothic cathedral. 
Seen from the train, it appeared tremendous, and 
seemed to be on a hill. It had two huge unfinished 
towers, and a high, tapering fleche over the trans- 
cept; and long after leaving Amiens we could see 
that spire and those towers floating through the blue 
air, seemingly detached from the church far down 
below. It would be difficult to imagine anything 
more beautiful and imposing. 

Amiens seems to be quite a town, and is evidently 
a very busy place, for I could see the smoke curling 



1 8 PARIS 

up from many factories and mills of one kind or 
another. We could see a canal, too, not far away. 

One thing that appeals to me especially in con- 
tinental travel is that one can see so many beautiful 
and interesting things and places from the train. 
Around the ' stations, generally, everything is clean 
and attractive, — none of those unsightly things, 
which sometimes are very disagreeable to travelers 
in our own country, are to be seen. 

Between Brussels and Paris the country seems to 
be flat and marshy. Certainly it is marshy in Pic- 
ardy; but, — once in a while, — is varied by lovely 
little green hills. There are many small towns and 
tiny villages, — all clean and picturesque, so far as 
we could see from the windows of our train as it 
went rushing through this country of Calvin's. 

The land all the way seemed to be carefully culti- 
vated, every inch of it. There were grayish, squat 
farmhouses with red-tiled roofs, the outbuildings 
nearly always being situated very close to the farm- 
houses, sometimes, apparently, all under one enor- 
mous spreading roof. Everything had a very sub- 
stantial look, — nothing flimsy about these houses. 

We saw some women walking along a white, wind- 
ing roadway lined with tall, straight poplars, and 
they had on "sabots," — a wooden shoe entirely dif- 
ferent from the Dutch shoe. These sabots have no 
backs, but rather high heels. The wearer thrusts 
the feet in, and starts off, careening, with a clickety- 
click. The Dutch shoe makes a cluckety-cluck, — 



THE MAGIC CITY 19 

quite a different sound, — a much more vacuous 
sound. 

Once we saw an old, old woman trudging along 
the road, seemingly weighed down with brush and 
a great basket of things, her sabots clicking as she 
went, — the brush under one arm, the basket on the 
other. 

Then, once in a while, we would catch fleeting 
glimpses of silent, lonely-looking roads, winding and 
twisting through clumps of tall, shadowy, spreading 
trees. 

Once we saw a peasant woman in a small cart, 
to which were hitched two large, brownish dogs. 
Poor doggies! They do not find life so easy for 
them over here. I do not like to see dogs at work; 
they should never have to do anything more than 
bark. Dogs do not seem to bark so much over here ; 
they are probably too tired after a long day's work 
to bark much about it. I am not sure of this, — only 
it seems so to me. 

Once in a while we caught a fleeting glimpse of 
the guardsmen at the grade-crossings, but they were 
not men — they were women. They stood there, like 
soldiers on dress parade, with head erect, grasping 
a small red flag in one hand and a small brass horn 
in the other. I suppose they blow the horn, but we 
could not have heard it if they had, because of 
the noise of the rushing train. Talk about women's 
rights! They seem to have them here, — so far as 
getting out and earning a living is concerned. And, 
really, that is a rather nice occupation for a woman, 



20 PARIS 

as It evidently requires no hard work, although I 
have no idea what the requirements actually are. 

Then, after a time, the houses became more and 
more numerous, the country more thickly built up, 
and — we had arrived ! We were in Paris, — at the 
Gare du Nord ! This was a very large station, and 
numbers of trains were standing on the various 
tracks beyond ours. 

As we alighted from the train, a porter came and 
took our luggage, asked if there were any trunks, 
and upon our replying in the negative, he led the 
way out to an exit. An officer stationed there then 
asked if we had anything to declare, — that is, any- 
thing dutiable, — and accepted our word for it that 
we had not. Not a package was opened ! And in a 
few minutes, we were comfortably seated in a nice, 
roomy carriage, bowling along on our way. 

Wide streets lined with trees stretched out in all 
directions; houses, tall and gray, by the thousand; 
cafes, with their tables and chairs set hospitably out 
on the sidewalks, greeted us on every side. We 
passed carriages upon carriages filled with cheerful- 
looking occupants. The people sauntering along the 
streets all looked cheerful, — everything looked 
bright and gay, and we all began at once to plan for 
unlimited prowls. Every one seemed to go along 
with a swinging gait, but not in a hurried way. 

Finally we came to a beautiful tree-lined street, 
named the "Boulevard des Capuclnes." There we 
stopped, — at a large, rather imposing building, 
called the Grand Hotel, and soon found ourselves 



THE MAGIC CITY 21 

installed In two very attractive rooms, from the win- 
dows of which we could look directly out onto the 
Grand Opera House, and down on the arteries of 
streets and boulevards stretching out in many direc- 
tions. This was an enormous hotel, beautifully fur- 
nished and equipped with all those things so neces- 
sary to the comfort of the present-day traveler; but 
I did not hke the new and modern tone of it so well 
as that of those lovely, old-world hotels in the Neth- 
erlands. Mr. Whatley said: 

"Oh ! I say, girls! This is quite like !'* 

And he straightway ordered up a whiskey and 
soda. 

We settled ourselves in our rooms, looked over 
every blessed piece of furniture in them, felt the 
quality of our heavy red velvet curtains, and then 
started out to catch a glimpse of the town. 

I proposed the opera the first thing, as all 
strangers do, I am told; but Mr. Whatley did not 
assent at all. He said: 

"What rot! No! by stll means let us go to the 
Moulin Rouge! The opera is always there; let it 
wait a while. Let us go and see real life!'' 

Of course ! Let us go ! 

One author says that every American looks up 
the Moulin Rouge the first thing, but I call upon 
the gods to bear witness that I went at the special 
Invitation of an Englishman. 

Vhe Moulin Rouge ! Pictures, sculpture, music, 
opera, — It was all there, just waiting for us! But — 
we went to the Moulin Rouge ! 



22 PARIS 

I had always thought so much about what I would 
do if I ever got to Paris: of the Venus de Milo, of 
Grand Opera, of heaven knows what all! and here 
I was, going, first thing, to the Moulin Rouge ! But 
one might just as well accept what the gods provide 
when he has plenty of time to spend on his whims. 

The dinner that evening was good, and extremely 
amusing; but the great, brilliantly illuminated din- 
ing-room lacked the cozy, friendly atmosphere of the 
other ones where we had been, looking, in its glitter- 
ing magnificence more like an addition to the Grand 
Opera House than anything else. 

The women nearly all wore beautiful evening 
gowns and a great deal of sparkling jewelry. I 
noticed that soft, clinging black stuffs were the choice 
of many of them. Among all the nations of the 
earth there assembled, I think there were numbers 
of English and Americans, but of this I am not posi- 
tive, as those who looked American were too far 
away for us to hear their voices. And heavens! 
These men, too, tucked their napkins under their 
chins ! 

Pierre de Coulevain is inclined to lay this care- 
lessness in table manners upon the shoulders of the 
French wet nurse, and the nurses of the older chil- 
dren as well. She says : 

For the early education of our sons and daughters, that educa- 
tion of the body and of the dawning mind, on which their health 
and often their happiness and their future depend, we engage, as 
V, et nurses, uncultivated peasant women, who have only hitherto 
brought up calves and pigs, and very often have done that very 
badly. . . . We insist upon these peasant women being clean, cer- 
tainly; we provide them with linen, with well-cut dresses, with 



THE MAGIC CITY 23 

very fine cloaks, and with ribbon ruches as wide as possible to 
wear on their heads, as all that is supposed to do credit to the 
house; but who troubles about the rest? 

And yet we know at present what the rest means! . . . We 
cannot ignore the fact that the coarse pictures and the wrong 
ideas which are in the nurse's mind will pass into the mind of 
the nursling, will be imprinted on the virgin cells of its brain, 
and will leave their indestructible germs there. 

Besides this, these peasant women have no refinement, no notion 
of decency and of physical cleanliness. They know nothing of 
the most elementary laws of health, of the value of time or even 
of any kind of discipline. They cannot even respect childhood. 
In the Champs Elysees, in the Tuileries Gardens, and everywhere 
else, they give objectionable exhibitions of themselves and of the 
children in their care, to the amazement and horror of foreigners. 
. . . They do not know how to eat properly, how to handle their 
knives and forks, and the children's meal with them is a sickening 
sight. 

This is how it comes about that we see men in high social posi- 
tions betray a lack of education at table that places them at once 
in a lower rank of society. A man who eats like a peasant may 
be superior to another who eats like a civilized being, but he will 
never be the equal of the latter. 

The difference in early education separates individuals more 
than the difference in culture. . . . We may thank our nurses, 
with their primitive language and their unsterilized minds, for 
that vein of coarseness in us which amazes foreigners. 

It had not impressed me as "coarse" especially, 
but amusing. To see a lot of grown-up men tuck 
napkins under their chins before commencing a meal 
is, to say the least, amusing. 

Soon after dinner, we went out. Mr. Whatley 
said it was "beastly rot to sit around hotel salons 
and look at persons whom no one knows," so out we 
went. On the ground floor of our own hotel we 
found a very attractive cafe, the Cafe de la Paix, so 
we sat down here for a while. 

There were numbers of small, round tables on 
the sidewalk, with chairs for two or three persons 



24 PARIS 

at each table. I notice in Paris that more often 
than not there are three or four chairs at the tables 
instead of just two, as the French are a gregarious 
people and love to go out in groups, rather than by 
twos, as we do. 

We were delighted to be out in the street, as it 
were, and to see the gay-looking, cheerful people at 
such close range. We each had a glass of foaming 
champagne for about twenty cents apiece, while Mr. 
Whatley ordered his dearly-beloved "whiskey-and- 
soda." One can buy champagne on draft in Paris, 
as we do beer in America. 

We sat there for a long time, watching the ever- 
moving panorama : carriages by the hundreds, peo- 
ple by the hundreds moving along in the soft, purple 
evening light, — all just as I had read and dreamed 
of. Yes, there they were! All those people that 
had been written of for hundreds of years ! I seemed 
to know them all. I dare say that the evening crowds 
of to-day do not look materially different from the 
crowds that walked along these streets two hundred 
years ago : a mere matter of change in style of dress, 
that is all. 

After people finish dinner they come out to the 
cafes on the boulevards for a small coffee and a 
sweet of some kind. I am told that many families 
prepare no desserts at all for dinner, preferring in- 
stead to go to a boulevard cafe and have a pastry 
and a small coffee, which is just as cheap as to pre- 
pare them at home, and includes, besides, music and 
infinite amusement and entertainment. And what is 



THE MAGIC CITY 25 

better in life than relaxation and amusement after a 
day's work? The French seem to understand this. 

I saw many, many men (no women) drinking ab- 
sinthe. It was served in a tall, slender goblet, a 
small portion of the green liqueur in the bottom. 
Over the top they laid a small silver fork, upon 
which they very carefully placed a cube of sugar. 
From time to time, they would then drop a few 
drops of iced-water, letting it trickle through, not 
drinking until all the sugar had been dissolved. 
Absinthe was among the things that I refused to 
investigate. I had read "Wormwood," — that was 
enough for me! — and I feared to take any risk. 

We sat there for a long time, seldom speaking. 
Mr. Whatley was happy and completely satisfied 
with his whiskey-and-soda, and we. Miss Whatley 
and I, intensely interested in what we saw, although 
the Whatleys had made many previous visits to 
Paris. As for me, I was in a new world. The hour 
was full of magic, and I seemed to be able to hit 
upon nothing more worthy the occasion than silence. 



CHAPTER II 

THE MOULIN ROUGE. OTHER DIVERSIONS 

By-and-by we hailed a passing carnage and start- 
ed for the Moulin Rouge. We went through many, 
many streets, all brightly Illuminated; rows of tall, 
dark houses stood side by side, all along the 
thoroughfares, built right up against each other, — 
no lawns, seldom any lights in the upper stories. 
They were much like the houses in Brussels: long, 
narrow, window-like doors opening on to the iron 
balconies that extended along their entire fronts. 
Many of them were very tall, — several stories above 
the streets, — and nearly all had steep Mansard 
roofs. 

We came finally to the Boulevard Clichy, which 
fairly seethed with life: people coming and going, 
lights everywhere, and occasional bursts of lively 
music delighted our listening ears as some door 
would open along the street, — cafes of one kind or 
another, I suppose. 

All kinds of flaring electric signs in gay combina- 
tions of colors could be seen all along the street. 
At last, we came to the "Red Mill" on the Place 
Blanche, which industriously proclaimed its location 
by flinging its great arms, outlined with red electric 
lights, over the wide entrance. 

26 



THE MAGIC CITY 27 

We went In. There were great crowds of people, 
men and women; there was a wide stairway, — there 
were waving palms in tubs or pots; there was a 
vaudeville show; there were refreshment parlors (I 
scarcely know what else to call them) ; there was 
dancing; there was a good-sized garden in the rear, 
with seats and graveled walks, and there were high 
buildings in the rear of the garden. There were 
beautiful women most wonderfully gowned, — ex- 
quisite sinners, if what I was told is true. They 
looked like duchesses, at the very least. 

We took seats and looked on at the show, very 
few words of which did we understand. A lovely 
young woman, in wonderfully abbreviated, fluffy- 
ruffles clothing, came out and sang something with 
a chorus of "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!" and did tre- 
mendous things with her eyes, whereupon all the 
men laughed and looked in a pleased way at one an- 
other, and then applauded vociferously. Her danc- 
ing was not so much "dancing" as it was an exhibi- 
tion of fancy steps and kicks. 

We walked about, in the garden and through the 
various rooms and halls, watching the people, and 
seeing many curious little things that might have 
passed unnoticed in other surroundings. 

In a large hall, or ball-room, later in the evening 
the floor was cleared, and eight young women took 
the center, and proceeded to perform. They had 
on very ordinary, dark-colored dresses and large 
black hats with waving plumes, and looked tame 
enough. But wait! In a moment the music struck 



28 PARIS 

up a suggestive air, and they began. They turned, 
with a curtsey, and looked at each other, and then, 
very unexpectedly to me at least, they kicked, — oh, 
very, very high! And what a sudden revelation! 
Lingerie by the yard ! Lace and ribbons, — ^pink and 
blue, — run through everything, and black silk stock- 
ings and high-heeled pointed-toe slippers capped the 
climax. They turned and faced the audience, then 
kicked; they turned again and faced each other, and 
then kicked, seemingly direct at each other's noses; 
they turned again to the audience, their eyes turned 
to the ceiling, as if seeking a convenient spot upon 
which to land their next endeavor, and kicked; they 
looked at the glowing chandeliers, aimed well, and 
then, — kicked; they kicked at everything in sight; 
they stuck their feet straight up into the air, with 
a ffnal kick, and then ? — Well ! we had seen the won- 
derful professional dancers of the Moulin Rouge. 

I did not care especially for that exhibition as 
there are other forms of dancing that seem more 
graceful, to my mind, but they all seemed to be in 
such a joyous and frolicsome mood, and to so thor- 
oughly enjoy "kicking," that one could not fail to 
sympathize. 

After a time Miss Whatley and I sat down, at 
one of the numerous tables behind the railing, for 
an ice and a few minutes' quiet, while Mr. Whatley 
announced that he would "just take a look around 
for a few minutes," and we saw him go, — our ex- 
quisitely dressed Englishman, — out into the crowd 



THE MAGIC CITY 29 

that was promenading continually back and forth be- 
fore us. 

After a bit two young women came up to him, one 
on each side, each taking an arm, and they began 
talking and smiling, and casting roguish glances up 
into his dazed-looking eyes. He looked first at one, 
then at the other, — then he looked despairingly over 
to where we were sitting. I looked at my companion, 
she looked at me, then — Horrors! We both 
laughed. That dear man was always digging such 
deep pits for himself! He should have remained 
with us. 

Those girls' eyes followed his, and they lighted 
on us, and saw our amusement at his predicament. 
Did they desist and beat a retreat? Not at all! 
They smiled and ogled him alj the more, and held on 
still tighter to his black-coated arms. One naughty 
girl reached up and chucked him under his chin, and 
twittered and cooed. The perspiration stood out all 
over Mr. Whatley's forehead, and finally he broke 
loose and ran, — actually and positively ran! — to 
where we were seated, and stepped right over the 
railing, never stopping until he reached us and 
safety. I laughed; we all laughed. Those girls 
made a little moue at him and grinned at us, and 
went on as unconcerned as could be. He puffed 
and snorted, and catching his breath, finally ejacu- 
lated : 

''The baggages! The baggages! Oh, I say, my 
dear! The abominable little baggages! Really!" 

He stayed close by us during the remainder of 



30 PARIS 

the evening. He never took another "look around." 

In the ball-room waltzing was in progress (I 
didn^t notice any other dance at all). The dancers 
went round and round, without reversing once, until 
it made me dizzy just to look at them. How do 
they manage to keep going for so long a time, with- 
out reversing? However, it never seemed to occur 
to them to do so. 

We remained until midnight, and then, — we didn't 
go home. Oh, no! We went to what Mr. Whatley 
called a "very naughty" cafe. It was the Olympia 
or Olympic, — something like that. He said "nice" 
people did not go there, but that he wanted us to 
see it, — that when people left the Moulin Rouge they 
generally went there for the wind-up of the night's 
amusements. So we went too. 

It was not far from our hotel, on one of the 
boulevards, but I do not know exactly where. It 
was down-stairs, — that is, we went down a number 
of steps from the street, and into a large, brightly 
lighted place. There were rows of small boxes, di- 
vided from one another by a wooden partition about 
four or five feet high, so that when standing, one 
could see over it into the next compartment. 

In each was a well-appointed table and several 
chairs. Lighted electric lamps, shaded and subdued 
by pretty silk covers, were in the center of each table, 
and over all hovered the sound of music, produced 
by an orchestra stationed somewhere out of the 
range of our vision. I never knew just where that 
orchestra was stationed. 



THE MAGIC CITY 31 

I saw nothing at all that could displease any one, 
or that seemed in any way different from any other 
well-appointed cafe, — at first. 

Among other things, we ordered crayfish, which 
were served to us in startling style. There was a 
sort of pyramid in the middle of a large bowl-like 
dish, over which were sprawling the brilliant scarlet 
fish, a number lying In the dish around the pyramid, 
served with mayonnaise of just the correct shade of 
cream to set off the scarlet of the crayfish. Heavens! 
Was this "light" refreshment for three persons or 
for the Grand Army? However, when we began on 
them, they soon disappeared, for there was only a 
bite or two in each. 

After an hour or so, I should say, several 
women, — beautifully dressed women, — left their 
compartments, and, evidently at the invitation of 
companions, began to dance. It was a curious dance, 
long steps and much swirling and swishing. They 
danced up one side and down the other. In the aisles 
between the long line of compartments. Every one 
stepped to the entrance of his own compartment, 
and looked on with approval and plaudits, each 
ejaculating to the other with raised eyebrows and 
twitching shoulders. Words did not seem to count 
for much, — It was the eyes and shoulders that did 
the work. The faster the music the faster they 
danced, and wound up the performance with volu- 
minous sweeps and bows, then disappeared into 
their own compartments. Every one smiled and 
applauded. So did we! Always do as others do, 



32 PARIS 

and you will always pass as one of themselves and 
escape any unwelcome notice. 

At half-past four in the morning we returned to 
our hotel, tired and glad of the prospect of sleep. 
If anything very, very wicked had transpired, I did 
not understand or know it. The whole thing had 
impressed me as only a sort of honey-wafer affair, — 
nothing serious at all; and I had the further impres- 
sion that there was, after all, something extremely 
amiable about these ungodly ones, — something gen- 
tle and pleasing. 



I 



CHAPTER III 

THE MORGUE. PARISIAN "CABBIES." THE ARC DE 
TRIOMPHE. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE 

The next morning Miss Whatley and I had 
breakfast in bed. What a joy! They brought to 
us a long, black-handled silver pot of hot coffee, 
with a strong mixture of chicory, another silver pot 
of hot milk (not cream), beautiful rolls, sweet but- 
ter, and a pot of honey. And it was all good, — 
very, very good! 

It was quite late before we were ready to begin 
the day's enjoyments, and we found Mr. Whatley 
up and ready to pilot us around to see some more 
'life." O Mona Lisa ! He took us to the Morgue ! 

We got into a carriage and started off with a 
flourish, the coachman cracking his whip as we went. 
These fellows keep up a constant cracking of their 
whips ; it seems to afford them amusement. 

We went to the Rue de Rivoli, and on down past 
the Tuileries Gardens filled with nursemaids, per- 
ambulators, and children ; the Louvre ; the Tour St. 
Jacques, to the Pont Neuf ; past Notre Dame, and 
up to the Morgue, — a small, dark building at the 
back of the cathedral. 

Many people were going in, and many were com- 
S3 



34 PARIS 

ing out, — a constant stream. We went in also, and, 
for a minute, I felt faint; I wanted to run away. 
But after a second I collected myself and determined 
to look and see, — look straight at all I saw, — that 
was what I had come to Europe for. I do not like 
the thought of death at all, and to contemplate it in 
such heart-rending guise is not pleasing. 

Behind a thick partition of glass, clean and trans- 
parent, were nine dead bodies, — all that remained 
of that many persons who had grown tired of the 
struggle and had forcibly terminated it. They were 
on slabs of marble, I think, slightly tipped at the 
upper ends so as to raise the head, thus enabling the 
onlookers to see the subjects plainly, and giving the 
place something of the appearance of an amphi- 
theater. 

The poor, dead things ! One woman, with a dark 
brown dress hanging back of her, had the side of 
her face stove in, — had evidently knocked her head 
against some obstruction in the river, from which 
she had been taken, or — it might have happened 
in some more sinister way. Who knows? 

There were several women, side by side, on their 
cold, damp slabs. Several men, too, were lying 
there, and a young boy with a blue shirt. Poor 
little boy! What had happened? One poor man 
lay there with his clothing in shreds, but nothing else 
to throw any light upon the mystery. What could 
have driven nine people to such desperate lengths 
in lovely, smiling Paris? If w^e only knew, it might 
perhaps fill volumes. 



THE MAGIC CITY 35 

Many persons stood by us, all peering in, — per- 
chance they were seeking some one? One man 
smiled as he stood looking in, and Mr. Whatley 
sniffed, and muttered: "Stoopid ahss!" We were 
seeking no one. Heaven be praised! but we felt de- 
pressed, and went away feeling sad about it all. One 
of our great poets has told us about it all in his own 
peculiar way: 

First came the silent gazers; next 

A screen of glass we're thankful for; 
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, 

The three men who did most abhor 
Their life in Paris yesterday, 

So killed themselves; and now enthroned, 
Each on his copper couch, they lay 

Fronting me, waiting to be owned. 
I thought, and think, their sin's atoned. 

Poor men! God made, and all for that! 
The reverence struck me; o'er each head 

Religiously was hung its hat, 
Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, 

Sacred from touch: each had his berth, 
His boards, his proper place of rest, 

Who last night tenanted on earth 
Some arch where twelve such slept abreast, — 

Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. 

It was a gloomy-looking place, and one who has 
once looked in upon its quiet, somber, secret-laden 
inhabitants, will not soon forget it. I rather think, 
however, that it is a questionable thing to allow such 
unrestricted entrance ; it could not fail to be sugges- 
tive, — to the morbidly inclined, at least. But, as 
Mr. Whatley so often said: 

"Once is enough, quite enough, my dears!", 

He at once went out and procured a whiskey-and- 



36 . PARIS 

soda, and upon reaching the hotel gave the coach- 
man such a generous fee that the man went whistling 
all the way down the boulevard, and cracked his 
whip until it sounded like a pistol. The pourboire 
was too much, perhaps, but the cocher was so happy 
that it was worth it just to hear him whistle. Mr. 
Whatley always seemed to enjoy what he called "a 
crack" with the coachmen. 

The cabmen, many of them at least, wear white 
"stove-pipes" and very much faded blue suits, and 
all look a little sad and hungry. Some one has said 
it is "voraciousness" and not hunger, and I most sin- 
cerely hope it is. 

The luncheon was a continuation of the dinner of 
the evening before, — just as elaborate, — and I hon- 
estly believe that I ate half of the things served. I 
refused very few dishes ; I wanted to find out what 
they were and how they tasted. For one thing, we 
had parsnips cooked with celery and cheese. It was 
excellent, and I had never heard of that combina- 
tion before. And we had soup with wine in it, and 
they served pates made of duck livers. 

Along about four o'clock in the afternoon, we 
ordered a beautiful carriage (no fiacre this time), 
and went jingling down the Avenue des Champs 
Elysees for a drive; — past the Arc de Triomphe, 
into the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, to the Bois. 
I felt that I knew it at once, as I had read so much 
of it; and I must frankly admit that it looked ex- 
tremely like its photographs. How beautiful ! But 
in such a different way from the Bosch at The 



THE MAGIC CITY 37 

Hague. It would be impossible to compare them, 
although both are so beautiful, but I loved the one 
at The Hague with a real affection. 

The almost bewildering maze of highways and 
bypaths, crossing and re-crossing, meeting and di- 
verging, seemingly without any special motive or 
design, were literally covered with a steady stream 
of moving vehicles of every kind and description. 
Beautifully dressed women leaned idly and negli- 
gently back in magnificent carriages, while the jin- 
gling of dangling chains, the click-clack of silver- 
studded harness, the clap-clap, of countless hoofs, 
and the whinnying of motors, made a musical ac- 
companiment to the hum of human voices. The 
sound of so many thousands of horses' hoofs beat- 
ing on the soft wood of the splendidly paved thor- 
oughfares, falls on the ear in soft, hollow thuds 
that do not destroy but add to the music of the 
kindly noises. There are noises that come with a 
shock, — that give positive pain ; but these boulevard 
noises are musical and tranquilizing; one begins 
straightway to think of pattering rain-drops. 

There were hundreds of common fiacres; there 
were automobiles; there were motors; there were 
bloomer-clad girls on bicycles; there were magnifi- 
cent equipages of every degree of elegance. The 
place was filled with the gayety of all nations, every 
one looking pleased, whether he were or not. 

Nearly all the bicycle girls wore white lace ties 
and jabots, which struck me as rather a curious com- 
bination, — white lace ties and bloomers ! But who 



38 PARIS 

would think of questioning the taste of a French 
woman ? 

We drove for a long time, and came at last to a 
cafe away back in the woods, under the great trees, 
— the Cafe Cascade. Long lines of carriages drove 
up to the entrance, one after the other. The occupants 
of the vehicles would get out, and the coachman 
would drive on. Seats and tables were outside on 
the lawn, under the green of the shadowy trees. An 
orchestra, composed of men in scarlet coats and be- 
gilded caps, played on the lawn in front of the 
cafe. 

We, too, took our places at a table not far away 
from the music, and ordered our afternoon tea, — 
the most cheerful, social function in the world. 
Where and how did the English discover it? 

Such a bright, cheerful company of people ! We 
listened to the music, drank tea, ate thin slices of 
buttered bread, — and observed our fellows. 

Not far away was a real cascade, — water falling 
down over a lot of artificially-piled rocks, making a 
musical ripple on the quiet air. Glimpses of blue 
sky could be seen once in a while through the wav- 
ing, rustling branches of the clean, green trees, 
while the golden sunshine sent down long, shining 
rays on to the gay company below. 

Many persons seemed to be acquainted with many 
other persons, and visited back and forth, first at 
one table, then another. The men seemed to be an 
affable lot, and smiled a great deal, doffing hats right 
and left. 



THE MAGIC CITY 39 

We sat there for a long time, discussing the peo- 
ple, the gowns, the manners of those observed. 
There was one woman, in a most ravishing costume, 
who had shining golden hair that fairly glistened 
in the sun. She was a Russian. There were repre- 
sentatives from all nations, either sitting, or ambling 
about among the tables. It began to grow shadowy 
through the long vistas of trees. 

Driving on at length with hundreds of others, we 
keenly enjoyed the deep silence to be felt among 
the rustling trees. Each place has its own atmos- 
phere, which sometimes is felt much more than 
seen or understood. 

There were shadowy stretches and splendid roads, 
and at one point we could catch glimpses of a per- 
fect sea of red-tiled roofs across the river, with deep 
shadows between, which glowed rich and ruddy in 
the flood of sunbeams that was bathing it all in a 
mantle of gorgeous amber and mauve. 

That wonderful Arc de Triomphe ! In the streams 
of a sinking sun it was beautiful, and loomed over us 
like a colossus, all mellow and ivory-white. 

I think hundreds of people were sitting in the 
chairs that so invitingly and hospitably line the boule- 
vards. All along the highways and byways of the 
parks, and all along the boulevards, are thousands of 
chairs, which people do not hesitate to use, for they 
all seemed to be occupied. I saw an old lady going 
about from chair to chair, to collect her fee of a 
penny for a seat in an ordinary chair, and two 
pennies for an armchair. The seats of the chairs 



40 PARIS 

round up in the middle, and to an observer, would 
perhaps not look especially inviting, for who wants 
to sit on a barrel ? But wait ! When you sit down, 
the seat falls, and lo ! we have a comfortable "cob- 
bler" seat! 

It is not surprising to me that so much has been 
said of this beautiful Bois de Boulogne. After pass- 
ing the Arc de Triomphe, one has an unbroken view 
down the Champs Elysees to the Place de la Con- 
corde, and the long, long stream of carriages going 
down one side and coming up the other, between 
the borders of swaying, rustling green trees, is an 
entrancing vision to one who is fond of the spec- 
tacle of human life and activity. It stimulates the 
imagination to a wonderful extent to look on at 
the passing show. 

In the middle of the street is a raised platform, 
where one can seek safety in crossing the crowded 
thoroughfares. An alert and exceedingly courteous 
officer stands on guard, and, every once in so often, 
stops traffic by a mere lift of his hand, to permit 
pedestrians to cross. He is the guardian angel of 
many who might otherwise be injured. Let us lift 
our hats to the Paris traffic squad ! They deserve it. 

Pedestrians in Paris must look to their safety, for, 
I am told, if a person should get run over, or in- 
jured in any way, he must not only do the physical 
suffering, but also pay the bill. He simply must 
not get in the way, — he simply must not be so stupid 
as to allow himself to get hurt. Now, that is an 
idea ! Imagine being run over and injured, and then 



THE MAGIC CITY 41 

being arrested for it, and being made to pay a fine ! 
But I suppose there is not much excuse for it, with 
such fine traflic officers at all the busy crossings. 

We certainly had some wonderful dishes served at 
dinner! I never could guess half of them from their 
names, — some very simple dishes are known by soul- 
disturbing appellations and a faint scent of garlic. 
Mr. Whatley says the French put garlic into every- 
thing except ice-cream. He has no use whatever for 
a Frenchman. 



CHAPTER IV 

PARIS BY MOONLIGHT. A STUDENTS' CAFE 

After loitering about the great parlors for a 
while after dinner we went and put on our street 
dresses, and set out again. It was moonlight ! The 
great Opera House was bathed in a silvery flood, 
but, — we did not go in. We were looking about for 
a seat on the boulevard again, where we might sit 
and indulge our fancy for watching the crowds. 
What is more intensely interesting than the subtle 
life of a great city's teeming streets, — its surging 
throngs of men and women; its jostling of tragedy 
and comedy; its never-ending parade of fairly obvi- 
ous apparitions? Here is food for thought and 
speculation that is practically inexhaustible, and we 
were eagerly searching for it. 

Later on, we walked, and walked, and walked, — 
it seemed to me for miles. Then we came to a cafe 
all bright with lights, — ^the Taveme du Pantheon, 
and right at the head of the street was the beauti- 
ful Pantheon, its great gilded dome all covered with 
the magic white of the moonlight. It looked like 
some wonderful Oriental dream. How the moon- 
light changes all things for us! 

This cafe is in the very heart of the Latin Quar- 

42 



THE MAGIC CITY 43 

ter, and things here were all quite different from the 
things we had seen at the Cafe de la Paix. We had 
entered a different atmosphere, a different world. 
Here we felt the difference between monied Paris 
and student Paris. 

The great, tall houses all about seemed dark and 
massive in the night shadows and moonlight, and 
there was a big pond of water in the middle of the 
street, — I suppose I should say "fountain," but it 
was so big that it was more like a pond with an 
iron fence around it. 

. The sidewalk under the awnings was covered with 
large (not small, like those on the other side of 
the town) white-covered tables, and good-humored 
waiters stood about in long white aprons. They 
were just as polite and attentive as those examplary 
fellows in Brussels, and brought our coffee to us 
with a smile. They bring coffee in a polished metal 
pot with an extremely long handle at one side in- 
stead of in the back, and, at the same time, bring 
a pot of boiling hot milk in another pot of the same 
sort, — one in each hand. They pour out first the 
milk, then the coffee, holding the pot up at a great 
height, so that the coffee foams as it falls into the 
cup. It must require a lot of practice to perfect 
the trick. 

They serve a drink consisting of a little currant 
or raspberry juice and charged water. The juice is 
placed in a tall, slender goblet, and a syphon served 
with it; and no matter what is served, they bring 
it to you with the glass set in a thick china saucer 



44 ^ PARIS 

with the price marked on the bottom, so that one 
can readily gauge the sobriety of his neighbors by 
the size of the stack of saucers at his side. 

This is evidently a cafe which is largely patron- 
ized by students. I saw several men with dark- 
green velvet coats on, the collars fastened up close 
around the throat, and wearing most amazing 
curled-up mustaches. At another table, talking and 
gesticulating, were several woolly-haired geniuses 
drinking absinthe, and perhaps working up inspira- 
tion. There were many young women here, too, — 
all eating regular meals, not taking drinks, or just 
coffee. How jolly to be able to sit out in the cool, 
sweet evening air to eat! 

Hundreds of lights gleamed in long shining lines 
down the streets; lights by the dozens, too, gleam- 
ing from cabs, carriages, and great, rumbling 'buses. 
On one street were steam trams, with a second story 
built on to them, — ^^two cars hitched together; and, as 
soon as I saw them, I at once suggested that we re- 
turn by this means. 

Just over the way was an entrance to the Luxem- 
bourg Gardens, which lay, dark and inscrutable, just 
beyond the vision of the eye, the moonlight pouring 
down upon them, suggesting things picturesque and 
fanciful, and one cannot help wondering — But we 
will wait for a to-morrow to investigate them. There 
is plenty of time, and mere rapidity of movement is 
not everything; in fact, is not always to be desired. 

When ready to return, we mounted to the second 
story of a steam tram. It beats a carriage all to 



THE MAGIC CITY 45 

pieces! Glorious! We could look from our eerie 
down upon the crowded thoroughfares, — lights in 
every direction; carriages with different colored 
lights at the sides; street lamps, automobile lamps 
searching the roadways with great glaring eyes of 
fire, and away off, through the silvery, moonlit space, 
we could see the mysterious outlines of Notre Dame, 
its two towers and its fleche over the intersection 
of nave, choir, and transepts, all covered with the 
white of the moonlight; the great flying buttresses 
looking gray and spectral, like so many great curved 
arms reaching up; the trees at the back, like so 
many great black sentinels standing guard. And as 
I looked at it, looming so big and ghostly there in 
the star-studded moonlight, I remembered all the 
weird and uncanny stories I had read and heard, 
and in defiance of common sense and reason, I kept 
thinking of them all. 

On the river were many barges and steamers; 
some, silent and sleeping at their moorings in the 
shadows of walls; others, steamers or bateaux, 
brightly lighted, tooting and chugging along over 
the silver-streaked water all-ruffled, casting long, 
wrinkled reflections of the many colored lights. 
Lights on the bridges, too! Bridge after bridge 
flung across the wide river, each with its quota of 
brilliance doubled and multiplied in the reflections 
given back from the wriggling waters below. 

Away off in the distance, we could see dimly the 
Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the deep blue of 
the starlit heavens, its great searchlight on the top 



46 PARIS 

of the tower throwing a long shining path of white 
light across the city, as the moon gradually trav- 
eled to the other side of the world. 

When we again reached our own hotel, we were 
not too tired to stop at the Cafe de la Paix long 
enough to have some more refreshment, and take 
a good-night look at the passing throngs. 



CHAPTER V 

MEMORIES OF NAPOLEON. HOTEL DES INVALIDES 

Each place has its own gods, and we cannot es- 
cape them. No matter where one turns, the partic- 
ular gods of a place are confronted and must be 
taken into account, — even occasional sacrifices are 
exacted. It probably would not be possible to go 
to Paris and not give some thought to Napoleon 
Bonaparte. One sees something to bring him to 
the foreground on every hand, just as one always 
meets Charles V in the Netherlands. Well, grace 
to the dead! 

Mr. Whatley wanted to visit the tomb of the 
great Corsican the first thing the next morning. It 
would be difficult, to my mind, to imagine a more 
fitting spot for the final resting-place of the man 
of war than in the midst of all this paraphernalia 
of war. /<^^** 

Here he was brought in tS^, with great pomp 
and show, and laid to rest, where, to quote Madame 
de Remusat: 

All who revere his glory, his genius, his greatness, and his 
misfortunes, can come to muse above his grave. 

I thought of how many years ago it had been 
since the news came from St. Helena that Napoleon 

.47 



48 ' PARIS 

Bonaparte was dead, and then I thought of his splen- 
did ride that cold day from Courbevoie to the In- 
valides. After the arrival of the Belle Poule at 
Havre, the body was placed upon a flat-bottomed 
barge and towed up the Seine to Courbevoie, a small 
village about two miles out from Paris. When all 
had been placed in readiness, the funeral cortege 
formed and started with the body to Paris. One 
author says: 

"Between each gilded lamp-post, with its double 
burners, and beneath long rows of leafless trees, 
were colossal plaster statues of Victory, alternating 
with colossal vases burning incense by day, and in- 
flammable materials for illumination by night. 

"The spectators began to assemble before dawn. 
All along the route scaffoldings had been erected, 
containing rows upon rows of seats. All the trees, 
bare and leafless at that season, were filled with 
freezing gamins. All the wide pavements were 
occupied. Before long, rows of National Guards 
fringed the whole avenue. They were to fall in 
behind the procession as it passed, and accompany 
it to the Invalides. 

"The cofiin, having been landed, was placed upon 
a catafalque, the cannon gave the signal to march, 
and the procession started. The public was given 
to understand that in a sort of funeral casket blaz- 
ing with gold and purple, on the top of the cata- 
falque twenty feet from the ground, was enclosed 
the cofiin of the Emperor; but it was not so. The 
sailors of the Belle Poule protested that the cata- 



THE MAGIC CITY 49 

falque was too frail, and the height too great. They 
dared not, they said, attempt to get the lead-lined 
coffin up to the place assigned for it, still less to try 
to get it down again. It was consequently deposited, 
for fear of accident, on a low platform beneath the 
wheels. 

*'First came the gendarmes, or mounted police, 
with glittering breastplates, waving horse-hair 
crests, fine horses, and a band of trumpeters; then 
the mounted Garde Municipale ; then Lancers; then 
the Lieutenant-General commanding the National 
Guard of Paris, surrounded by his staff, and all offi- 
cers, of whatever grade, then on leave in the capital. 
These were followed by Infantry, Cavalry, Sappers 
and Miners, Lancers, and Cuirassiers, Staff-officers, 
etc., with bands and banners. 

"Then came a carriage containing the Chaplin 
who had had charge of the body from the time it 
left St. Helena, following whom were a crowd of 
military and naval officers. Next appeared a led 
charger, son of a stallion ridden by Napoleon; and 
soon after came a bevy of the Marshals of France. 
Then all the banners of the eighty-six Departments, 
and at last, the funeral catafalque. As it passed 
under the Arc de Triomphe, erected by Napoleon 
in commemoration of his victories, there were hun- 
dreds in the crowd who expected to see the Emperor 
come to life again. Strange to say, the universal 
cry was: 'Vive Tempereur!' One heard nowhere: 
'Vive le roi!' 

"The funeral car was hung with purple gauze 



50 PARIS 

embroidered with golden bees. As I said, the coffin 
of the Emperor was supposed to rest upon a gilded 
buckler supported by four golden caryatides; but 
it was, as the sailors would have said, 'stowed safely 
in the hold.' 

"The catafalque was hung all over with wreaths, 
emblems, and banners. It had solid gilded wheels, 
and was drawn by eight horses covered with green 
velvet, embroidered with gold bees; each horse was 
led by a groom in the Bonaparte livery. At the 
four corners of the car, holding the tassels of the 
pall, rode two marshals, an admiral, and General 
Bertrand, who had shared the captivity of the Em- 
peror. 

"Around the catafalque marched the five hundred 
sailors of the Belle Poule . . . Then came all the 
Emperor's aides-de-camp who were still living, and 
all the aged veterans in Paris who had served under 
him. This was the most touching feature of the 
procession. Many tears were shed by the spec- 
tators, and a thrill ran through the hearts of eight 
hundred thousand people as the catafalque creaked 
onward, passing under the arch which celebrated 
Napoleon's triumphs, and beneath which at other 
times no carriage was allowed to pass. But enthu- 
siasm rose to the highest point at the sight of the 
veterans in every kind of faded uniform, — Grena- 
diers of the Guard, Chasseurs, Dragoons of the 
Empress, Red Lancers, Mamelukes, Poles, and, 
above all, the Old Guard. 'Vive la Vielle Garde!' 



THE MAGIC CITY 51 

shouted the multitude; 'Vive les Polonais! Vive 
I'empereur !' 

''The procession passed through the Place de la 
Concorde, beneath the shadow of the obelisk of 
Luxor, which of old had looked on triumphs and 
funeral processions in Egypt; then it crossed the 
Seine. On the bridge were eight colossal statues, 
representing Prudence, Strength, Justice, War, Ag- 
riculture, Art, Commerce, and Eloquence. . . . 

"On the steps of the Chamber of Deputies was 
a colossal statue of Immortality, designed for the 
top of the Pantheon, but pressed into service on this 
occasion, holding forth a gilded crown as if about 
to place it on the coffin of the Emperor. 

"At the gate of the Invalides was another genuine 
statue — Napoleon in his imperial robes was holding 
forth the cordon of the Legion of Honor. . . . 

"The coffin was borne by sailors into the Chap- 
elle Ardente at the Invalides. 'Sire,' said Prince de 
Joinville to his father, 'I present to you the body 
of the Emperor Napoleon.' 'I receive it in the name 
of France,' replied the King. Then Marshal Soult 
put the Emperor's sword into the King's hand. 'Gen- 
eral Bertrand,' said the King, 'I charge you to lay it 
on the coffin of the Emperor. General Gourgaud, 
place the Emperor's hat also on the coffin.' " 

And here he lies, sleeping where he wanted to 
rest,- — on the banks of the river he loved. 

What a strange arrangement for a tomb ! But, 
as Mr. Harnmerton says: 



52 PARIS 

The arrangement does not interfere In the slightest degree with 
the architecture of the edifice, which would have been half hidden 
by a colossal tomb on its own floor; whilst we have only to look 
over the parapet to be impressed with the grandeur and the 
poetic suitableness of the plan. With our customs of burial, we 
are all in the habit of looking down into a grave before it is 
filled up, and the impressiveness of Napoleon's tomb is greatly 
enhanced by our downward gaze. We feel that, notwithstanding 
all this magnificence, we are still looking down into a grave, — a 
large grave with a sarcophagus in it instead of a coffin, but a 
grave, nevertheless. 

If it is possible for the Emperor to contemplate 
it now, it must bring to him some satisfaction, or, 
perhaps, some regret. 

The Hotel des Invalides was intended to be what 
would correspond to our "Old Soldiers' Homes," and 
here Napoleon was laid at rest, protected by some 
of the old soldiers and guns and cannons of almost 
every known kind and make. 

I might try to understand something about the 
military collections here, but I am confronted by a 
catalogue in five volumes. Imagine a catalogue run- 
ning through five volumes! No matter, — guns all 
look alike to me. Mr. Whatley was delighted with 
all that array of murderous implements, — said they 
were splendid. Remembering what he had said of 
the collections in the Ryks Museum, I asked him if 
he thought this collection was genuine, and he an- 
swered : 

"Yes! Every blooming gun!" 

It is strange that men of peace will contemplate 
the implements of war with such satisfaction; yet 
they nearly always do. 

In passing through so many rooms filled with 



THE MAGIC CITY 53 

flags and banners from all nations, guns, cannon, 
armor, and such things, I must confess that that 
feeling of being on hallowed ground that comes over 
a person when treading historical places was en- 
tirely lacking. I could only feel that I was in the 
midst of war gods; the sense of death was not 
present. 

But after a while we entered into the great domed 
room wherein lies all that remains of the man. 
There is a hole dug into the ground of about the 
same dimensions as the magnificent dome high over- 
head, and directly covering it, which has been lined 
with polished granite of a grayish color. In the 
center of the granite-lined opening, has been placed 
the sarcophagus, — an immense thing made of shin- 
ing brownish porphyry. The floor of the great open 
crypt is paved with mosaic, upon which are to be 
read the names of his most famous battles, all laid 
in the mosaic, and twelve huge statues of marble 
stand guard around the crypt at equal distances from 
one another, their eyes fixed upon the sarcophagus, 
as if in pained surprise at his long silence. 

It is all extremely austere, and it was not until 
that moment, as we stood at the edge of the well- 
like crypt and looked down upon the lonely-looking, 
solitary sarcophagus, did we feel that we were on 
ground sacred to the dead. Perhaps the strange, 
solemn blue light which shed its phantasmal rays 
over the place had something to do with our trans- 
formed feelings. Huge windows, filled with blue 
glass, are in the sides of the edifice, through which 



54 PARIS 

the sun can pour down its flood of light only in long 
blue beams. I wonder why blue? It is so chilly. 
Light has so much to do with the thickness of the 
wall that separates us from the things just beyond, 
— just out of our physical vision; so much to do 
with our sympathies and our ability to respond to 
those impacts that we receive from some unseen 
source, once in a while, when standing in the midst 
of such surroundings. 

Perhaps the musiic, coming softly and sweetly 
from the adjoining church, helped. However, it 
was very beautiful, — in a solemn way, — and I no- 
ticed that my companion had not once placed his 
hat upon his head, as he did in the cathedral at 
Brussels. 

Greatness generally spells "loneliness," but, 
nearby, is placed the heart of his second wife. Jose- 
phine is not there. 

Upon our exit into the glorious sunshine, we ran 
straight into a wedding party just leaving the church; 
the pretty bride, all in white, a long veil trailing be- 
hind her, leaned on the arm of her newly-made hus- 
band, her face bright and smiling. We gave her 
our best wishes, and hope that she will always be 
just as happy as she looked that morning as she 
stood in the long porch behind the row of Doric 
columns. People gathered about her, many kissing 
her, and then the whole party swept down the walk, 
entered the waiting carriages, and drove away. 
Where? V/ho knows? Some man standing by said 
that she was the daughter of a military officer, but 



THE MAGIC CITY 55 

I do not know who she was. The marriage sacra- 
ment was evidently the reason for the music we 
had heard in the tomb, for which we were grateful, 
as it had dispersed the hard, warlike atmosphere 
in which we had found ourselves at first enveloped, 
and had helped to bring about the more gentle and 
sacred feeling that made it possible for us to appre- 
ciate, in some degree, the magnificence before us. 

One thing that particularly interested me, was the 
death-mask of Napoleon. I suppose it is a true one? 
Then, really, he must have looked quite different 
in life, when his eyes were open, because I cannot 
see much resemblance between his death-mask and 
the faces painted on so many canvases. Perhaps 
both are accurate ; but the living face was different. 

Here is also the great funeral car that was used 
to carry his ashes at St. Helena. His gods are all 
about him, but the whole place is softened and 
sweetened by the occasional music from the splendid 
organ so near him. 

My head whirls in trying to follow directions. 
The streets wind, and slant, and zigzag, and just 
when one thinks he has a clew to the puzzle, pif! 
the name changes, and you are on another street; 
at least, another name is written, although, to me, 
it looks like one street. On one side of a crossing 
you are on a certain street; but the minute you cross 
over, you are on another street. 

All around the Hotel des Invalides, in side streets 
running in about twenty-nine directions, are such 
lovely old houses, with high iron fences protecting 



S6 PARIS 

them, and beautiful gardens at the sides. In many 
windows were boxes of blooming flowers, — gera- 
niums generally, — which gave such a homelike, com- 
fortable appearance to the grayish stone houses. 

We just prowled around, — up one street, and 
down another, — for a long time, looking at every- 
thing generally and at nothing in particular. Paris 
is an old, old city, but the usual marks of age are 
nearly all lacking. 

When we met people they looked at us in a 
friendly way, I imagined, and as if they would speak 
at the toss of a hat. Perhaps it was all imagina- 
tion, but they looked like very friendly people. 



CHAPTER VI 

A TRIP TO SURESNES. SOUVENIRS OF VOLTAIRE. 
TABLE MANNERS 

In the afternoon, Mr. Whatley said: 

"Let the art galleries go hang I" 

And so we went to a lovely little place just out- 
side of town, on the Seine, named Suresnes. We 
went by a steamer, which we took at the Tuileries. 
The "landing" is a small building moored in the 
river, and gives and sways with the motion of the 
water; it would not take much to make some per- 
sons seasick there. 

After a bit, along came the steamer, tooting and 
careening; the gateway was opened, and we all 
boarded. Wooden settees followed the line of the 
railing, while a number were placed in the center 
of the deck. Every one crowded as close to the rail- 
ing as possible; so did we. 

These little steamers travel fast. 

When one is on it the river looks different from 
what it does when looking at it from the banks, and, 
too, one can see under the bridges. How big they 
seem from below! 

The conductor came and took our tickets and 
gave us in return a small metal piece, which was 

57 



58 PARIS 

given up at the end of our journey. That, I pre- 
sume, is to show who has paid; if one should lose 
it he must pay over again; and if any one has stolen 
a ride he will be caught when he tries to get through 
the gate without his little round metal piece. 

The river is lovely, — so many islands ! Some of 
them quite large, and some are only green specks 
dotting the water. On one side, at a certain point, 
were magnificent woods, — great trees grew thick 
right down to the water's edge, and over all, a blue 
sky, flecked with tiny white clouds. We had occa- 
sional glimpses of white-walled houses, potted chim- 
neys, and red corrugated roofs showing themselves 
between the waving branches of fine old trees; and 
the flash of sunbeams on some sandy-looking, white 
road, which disappeared behind some slight eleva- 
tion, made us wonder where it led to. But, we never 
knew. It would not be an exaggeration for me to 
say it was a most charming trip, every inch of the 
way being filled with interesting sights certainly to 
one looking upon them for the first time. It sounds 
banal, I know, but they were not strange to me; 
I felt that I had seen it all before, at some time, in 
some far distant past; however, I suppose I should 
render thanks to the kodak and magazines. 

When we reached Suresnes, we climbed the em- 
bankment at once and went to a cafe with a terrace 
across the front, which we had observed from the 
deck of the steamer, and whence we could look down 
upon the river. On the terrace were tables set out 
in their snowy damask cloths, and there were a lot 



THE MAGIC CITY 59 

of people there, all doing as were we : having after- 
noon tea, or coffee, and looking across the river at 
the picnickers having luncheon on the grass. 

Carriages and automobiles fairly rattled by, 
dashing over a bridge from the Bois, and then on 
down the white, winding roadway, where they were 
soon lost to view. There were hundreds of them. 
We all enjoyed watching the carriages more, be- 
cause of the extremely attractive gowns of the 
women (automobile travelers are never so beauti- 
fully garbed) . People did not seem to care so much 
for conversation as they did to sit quietly, looking, 
generally, across the river, or at the passing show; 
it was only occasionally that human voices disturbed 
the peace of the late afternoon atmosphere. 

We sat there for a long time, doing nothing, say- 
ing little, — just idly watching the people, the ever- 
changing reflections on the river, and two persons 
who sat on the extreme end of the terrace and seemed 
to be speaking in whispers; they might have been 
speaking in low tones, but it looked as if they were 
whispering. What is more tantalizing than whis- 
pering? One straightway wants to know all about 
something that might, otherwise, not have inter- 
ested him, and it causes one to indulge in all kinds 
of reflections that lead nowhere in particular. 

As the evening came on, and the sun gradually 
traveled to the other side of the world, the woods 
across the river took on all kinds of somber shades, 
the trees casting their long dark reproductions on 
the water below. 



6o PARIS 

Soon a little steamer came along, and we once 
more secured our places at the front end, where 
our vision would be unbroken. The view seemed 
different: the setting sun, streaming over the river 
and the houses and the somber trees along the banks, 
turned everything to a gorgeous amber and purple, 
while on the other side of the river the windows 
glimmered like burnished gold and copper, the Eiffel 
Tower, giant-like, overlooking all. 

How charming it is to be able to get out of the 
city so easily, — out into the cool, green, quiet coun- 
try ! And to be able always to find something good 
to eat when one gets there! All at the cost of a 
few pennies. It costs only four pennies by steamer 
to Suresnes ! 

People here do such strange things with impu- 
nity. I do not believe people ever laugh at each 
other, and that of itself is extremely agreeable. It 
eases the tension to such an extent that one may 
go smiling on his way, with a chance to be at his 
best, and do all kinds of things without the fear of 
being laughed at. I really believe that in Paris a 
man might wear a straw hat, and a woman a linen 
dress in November, without creating any perceptible 
commotion. No one seems to pay the least attention 
to passing strangers. This may, or may not, be the 
fact. This is only as it seems to me. 

Mr. Whatley proposed a restaurant dinner that 
evening instead of our usual one at the hotel He 
took us to a cafe very close to the Odeon, — a fine, 
ancient-looking theater on the other side of the 



THE MAGIC CITY 6i 

Seine, — known as the Cafe Voltaire now, but which, 
in that great man's time, was the Procope. I had 
often read of it, and was pleased at this opportunity 
to go and visit it, and to eat a dinner in a place, 
which is said to have been so pleasing to one so 
famous. It is said that Voltaire used often to go 
to the Procope for his coffee and to exchange badi- 
nage with the wits and clever ones of his time. 

There is a table, oblong, with four lean, ema- 
ciated legs, which is still preserved as the one at 
which he generally sat. Here is also his chair, stand- 
ing alone in solitary state. Ah, well ! even if it were 
not really his chair, this is a nice thing to do in 
memory of the famous man anyway. 'Let us all 
bow to it, and, — sit in some other chair. 

It is also said that Napoleon often went to the 
Procope, as well as did dozens of others well known 
to fame, — even the Revolutionary despots. One 
needs to read a little of Voltaire, muse for a while 
above Napoleon's tomb, read a little of the horrors 
of that horrible revolution, so as to get into the 
spirit, and then come here and sit a while, — long 
enough to entice them all back into their old places, 
and then contemplate them. They are all here, but 
all may not see them. 

The place is a quiet one, with a certain pictur- 
esqueness, though beginning to show some signs of 
age. It is furnished plainly, in good taste, and has 
a comfortable, homelike air about it, — just the sort 
of a place that a man like Voltaire might patronize. 

We had an excellent dinner, including wine and 



62 PARIS 

black coffee, for, I think, about a dollar each. There 
was no music, but a great deal of talking, — all the 
men with their napkins tucked under their chins and 
their mouths filled with food. Eating does not seem 
to interfere with conversation in any way, nor did 
the men lay down their forks or knives when making 
gestures, and I felt that a wonderful feat had been 
performed when I discovered that not one of them 
had been wounded. Here, to point a knife straight 
into another's face (or even a fork, or a soup spoon) 
is nothing at all. I wondered aloud if Voltaire, the 
man of form, and of elegance, also wore a napkin 
for a bib when eating at his "special" table here, 
and Mr. Whatley returned: 

"My word! Of course he did! A Frenchman 
never changes!" 

Our prejudices are amusing when not tiresome, 
and I must say that I never grew tired of the Eng- 
lishman's prejudices, because they were amusing to 
me as an American. However, I discovered that 
I had to overcome my strong objection to men tuck- 
ing napkins under their chins. Why not, if they 
want to? Perhaps they are correct, and I am all 
wrong. 

However, no matter how a Frenchman eats his 
food, one must acknowledge that he displays rare 
taste in its selection, and this fact is in all probability 
more worthy of attention than the mere matter of 
deportment. It is said that perhaps one reason for 
the grace and elegance of the French people is the 
taste they display in the selection of their food; 



THE MAGIC CITY 63 

coarse and depraved food will never produce a fine 
type of humanity, — to the contrary, I believe that 
it is conceded that the more refined the food, the 
more civilized the people. 

After our excellent dinner, we sat there for a 
long time. Nobody asked us if we desired anything 
else, nor did the waiters brush our table, or do any 
other of the nerve-racking things that indicate to 
patrons that it is time to "move on." No, we were 
not disturbed nor molested in any way, and I be- 
lieve we might have stayed until closing time with- 
out any further attention being paid to us. Ah, 
such things are a joy! 

Then we went out, — went out just to saunter about 
in the moonlight again. I believe the English never 
tire of wa^lking; my companions seemed able to walk 
for miles without ever getting fatigued. 

Moonlight in the heart of Paris is not like moon- 
light in x\ntwerp. Here, where the streets are as 
brilliant as day, it is not so shadowy and mysterious. 
Still, the silvery moonlight falling down upon the 
crimson and yellow of the street-lights makes a 
strange, beautiful combination, like some great, 
wonderful Arabian Night's vision gradually unfold- 
ing to our view. The streets and boulevards were 
well filled, but not crowded, and all moved on with- 
out any jostle or unkindly noises. People do not 
seem to do a great deal of talking, — are not noisy in 
their intercourse with one another, — the noise seems 
to be rather, a sort of rumble and subdued roar that 
comes from the tramp of thousands of horses' hoofs 



64 PARIS 

and turning of wheels on the soft, wooden streets, — 
a different sound from that made by the human 
voice. 

We walked on and on, over on the quiet side of 
the city, into more and more quiet quarters, meeting 
fewer and fewer people. The moonlight was glori- 
ous, throwing a silvery radiance over tall, old houses, 
which leaned against each other in friendly com- 
munion, along various small, quiet streets; tracing 
quaint and curious patterns over the walls and many- 
windowed Mansard roofs, — casting strange, elon- 
gated outlines over the narrow stone pavements out- 
lined by their borders of black, rustling trees. 

What wonderful dreamlike things one can see in 
the moonlight! Things that cannot be seen in the 
daylight, — things that by daylight would be too com- 
monplace and prosaic to contemplate. Even the 
chimneys are transformed, — thousands and thou- 
sands of curious pipes of chimneys stick up from 
the high old roofs into the blue sky; some of them 
with curious hoodlike tops, giving to them the ap- 
pearance of a lot of tall, lean, garrulous old women, 
with craned necks, standing on the roofs gazing at 
each other, — ^probably sticking out their tongues, 
and quarreling. Of course, on a moonlight night, 
one naturally expects to see such sights, and to let 
the imagination run riot, — ^that is what the moon- 
light is for. The nocturnal habit should by all means 
be cultivated; one sees such strange sights, while 
out of the night silence come such strange sounds, — 



THE MAGIC CITY 6s 

sounds whose meaning could not be explained any 
more than could one tell whence they come. 

At last we reached the river, — the river all bathed 
in the white rays of the moon, the twin towers of 
the Trocadero dimly outlined far off in the silvery 
distance against the indigo, starlit sky. 

There were strange outlines everywhere along 
the river that would never be noticed in daylight, but, 
sad to say, we heard no chimes. One's mind con- 
stantly reverts to those beautiful Netherland chimes. 

There are beautiful chimes on Sainte Clotilde's, 
but we were perhaps too far away to hear them. 
That is one of the sad things of a great city, — one 
gets too far away from the chimes. 

A great double-decked tram crossed over the 
bridge near by, with an uproar, all alight, like some 
fiery monster looking for prey. 

The quiet night walks are far more interesting 
and enjoyable to our little party than are the bril- 
liant cafes, but one must see them, — we must see 
what all the rest of the world has seen. 

The next day we concluded to find amusement for 
ourselves by riding about for a while on the top 
of an omnibus. Ah, the 'buses ! What an enormous 
amount of amusement and real pleasure one can buy 
for two or three pennies ! Looking down the boule- 
vards from the top of a 'bus, the swarms of people 
always on the move, seem unending. They pour in 
from all the cross streets and side streets, — people, 
trams, omnibuses, carriages, cabs, delivery carts, 
and wagons piled high with merchandise, — every- 



66 PARIS 

thing that can possibly move on wheels or legs. And 
they never seem to stop anywhere, always moving 
on and on, a long black stream up one side of the 
thoroughfare and down the other. On the Boule- 
vard Saint Denis this traveling stream looks like 
a huge serpent, as the street is up and down, and 
down and up, with never a break in it. 



CHAPTER VII 

THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS. FREE AMUSEMENTS. 
WORKMEN 

One Friday afternoon we went to the Luxem- 
bourg Gardens to hear the Military Band, — a com- 
pany of splendid looking men. We went early, in 
order to obtain chairs close to the bandstand, as we 
wanted to see and hear everything. How magnifi- 
cent military music is out in the open air! Every- 
body was there, — old people and young people, and, 
— heavens ! — ^babies by the dozen ! All were there, 
and all applauded at every rendition, no matter what 
it was. 

After the concert was over and the bandstand de- 
serted, we went and purchased waffles, fresh and siz- 
zling, from a small stove in the rear of a waffle booth 
not far away, and ate a disgraceful quantity. Music 
and waffles in the Luxembourg Gardens, — heavens! 
And then, the inner man satisfied, we just wandered 
about this enchanted garden of the Old World, 
where so many things speak loudly of that wonder- 
ful, terrible, de Medici woman, Marie. She it was 
who built the first Luxembourg Palace, after the 
death of Henry IV. 'Tis said that nothing remains 
of it now, but it was here, at any rate, and that is 

67 



68 PARIS 

foundation sufficient for the imagination to work 
from. She retained the original name of the place, 
which was called after the owner, the Duke de Piney- 
Luxembourg, and as such it is still known, and as 
such we will enjoy its beauty. 

There were cool, shady walks under the great, 
rustling green trees, with an infinite supply of chairs 
placed hospitably under their cooling shade; there 
were statues, flowers, and fountains^ — the lovely 
Fountain de Medici, standing at the end of a little 
toy canal of clear, green water. It is like a high 
wall, or the fagade of some fanciful building, cov- 
ered with statues and sculptures, and the water flow- 
ing out from a sort of fount in the center. Vines 
grow along the little embankment, flower urns of 
graceful shape are placed along the sides at regular 
intervals, and from overhead, long green shadows 
are flung on to the quiet, somber water. 

We stood there for a long time, thinking of many 
things, and especially of these de Medici women. 
They seem to pervade everything: they are not dead 
at all. 

It is great amusement just to wander about and 
watch the people, — certainly it is to strangers In a 
strange land. One of the things that especially Im- 
presses me is the seeming ability of the French 
people to enjoy the small things of life, to grasp the 
little diversions and amusements as they present 
themselves, and not wait for something big to come 
along, — something that costs a lot of money. They 
will laugh at a joke (or, as Mr. Whatley says, "a 



THE MAGIC CITY 69 

crack"), that we might turn up our noses at; and 
they do not stop at one laugh, either, but recur to 
it time and time again, their amusement not in the 
least abated. The antics of a child will give them 
the keenest of pleasure; even grown-up men and 
women will watch a Punch and Judy show for 
hours; a picnic in the country, a penny ride on the 
river, gazing in at the shop windows, — from all 
these little things they seem to obtain so much plea- 
sure ; and they cost so little. I must admit, however, 
that we enjoyed the Punch and Judy shows as much 
as they did, and each time that the villainous Punch 
rapped poor old Judy over the head with his club, 
Mr. Whatley roared, and ejaculated: 

''Oh! I say, girls!" 

And everybody around us laughed at him as much 
as at Punch and Judy. A laugh is very contagious. 

Paris is filled with amusements that cost no money, 
or at least very little. Even the penny chair on the 
boulevard is a pleasure. 

Many persons seem to find pleasure and enter- 
tainment in wandering among the bookstalls along 
the river embankments. That pleasure doesn't cost 
anything either. They were all there, — all those 
people of whom I had read in the story-books; even 
a couple of clean-shaven, kindly-faced priests, in 
their long black soutanes and low, round hats of 
shining black plush or beaver. You will see all kinds 
of people, — "all sorts and conditions of men," — 
standing about piles of books, old and new, looking 
at this one, and at that one; turning page after page, 



70 PARIS 

reading a little here and a little there, — not always 
buying, however. 

We, too, went and delved among the books for 
a while one bright sunny morning, just to see what 
had proved so interesting to others. Heavens! 
"Cassar's Commentaries!" "La Dame aux Came- 
lias," — ^illustrated! Here was poor Camille dying 
in a curious-looking bed with a high headboard made 
of cane, like a chair-seat. Over there, among a high 
pile of old books, was a medium-sized book bound 
in green, called "L'Histoire de la Tour de Nesle," 
which I wanted to read because the binding was 
green; here was a yellow-backed book called "Crimes 
des Papes," and I wanted so much to find out what 
their crimes had been; here was a scarlet-backed 
book of dreams, or rather, a key to dreams, called 
"Clef des Sognes," and dozens and dozens of others 
whose titles conveyed no meaning to my mind: an 
unknown world lay before me. Here was a huge 
book on engineering; nothing in that that I could 
understand, except a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge ; 
but there are so many things of which I know noth- 
ing that a few things more or less make no differ- 
ence. 

On some streets there are booths for the sale of 
toys, and the children crowd about, buying little toys 
and packages of things all done up in tinfoil paper. 
I do not wonder that the children are curious and 
want to buy, because I, a grown-up, could not resist 
the desire to see what was concealed in those mysteri- 
ous, silvery packages. Of course, we bought some 



THE MAGIC CITY 71 

of them, — chocolates, little cakes with pink sugar 
over the tops, and nougat were generally the mys- 
teries revealed. It became a habit after a time, so 
that I could scarcely pass a booth without purchas- 
ing a wee package or a gingerbread man. 

Over the doors of half the public buildings and 
places one sees the legend, which might mean so 
much, but perhaps means so little, *'Liberte, Egalite, 
Fraternite.^' One closes one eye and looks at it side- 
ways, but it adds to the things of interest to be seen 
for nothing. 

Another thing that amuses me, is the "Entree 
libre" over the shop doors. Free entrance ! Well, 
I should think so, inasmuch as it by no means signi- 
fies a free exit, so far as the purse is concerned. 

There is so much on the streets of Paris to interest 
and amuse the stranger. The laundry girls, for in- 
stance. Their hair is always freshly brushed and 
artistically **dope up," and with huge wicker baskets 
of clothes on their arms, they go along in their clean 
cotton dresses and white aprons, their hatless heads 
shining in the sunlight. 

There are also the bareheaded millinery girls, 
immaculate, with huge hat boxes hanging on their 
arms, which they handle with an infinite grace. 

I was always interested in watching the soldiers,* 
with their sloppy trousers and lagging gait. They 
look more like Turks than Frenchmen, with their 
queer "get-up." 

There are the great work horses, sometimes three 
in a row, with tinkling bells on their collars, always 



72 PARIS 

drawing great loads. These are horses from Nor- 
mandy. 

In our walks we constantly met companies of 
young girls, — pupils at the Lycees or convents, — 
walking sedately along, two by two, dressed in plain 
black, stuff dresses and small, round black hats, very 
much like the priests' hats, a lady principal walking 
at the head of the procession, and an assistant at 
the rear. I am told that all schoolgirls are required 
to dress in this way. What a truly excellent plan ! 
It does away with all the heartache and misery: 
one is dressed no better than the other; rich or poor, 
there's no distinction. As French women regard 
ragged or worn clothes as almost a crime, this is 
excellent for that reason. 

Then, too, the workmen give a touch of color to 
the busy streets; they generally wear "Mother Hub- 
bard" blouses, made of bright blue, over their other 
clothes. At first I laughed at these funny-looking 
men, dressed in their blue blouses, but later on, it 
seemed to me a very cleanly habit, saving, as it does, 
their woolen coats. 

And the shop windows! Miles of them! Cheap 
junk, cheap jewelry in the vicinity of the Palais 
Royal, cheap things of all sorts ! Then there are the 
first-class stores, where one may buy anything under 
heaven. I notice, however, that when articles of 
jewelry (as well as other things) are imitation, a 
sign to that effect is placed upon the article. I am 
told that it is against the law for a shopkeeper to 



THE MAGIC CITY 73 

sell an article as genuine when It Is an Imitation, 
and that Inspectors make the rounds dally to see 
that the law Is enforced. Excellent! Let us buy 
diamonds ! 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE VENUS OF MILO. THE LOUVRE 

On the morning that we succeeded In our efforts 
to get Mr. Whatley to accompany us to the Louvre 
to see the object of so many dreams, — the Venus 
de MIlo, — he started off with: 

"My word! Oh, I say, my dear! What rot! 
What blooming rot!" 

But he never drew back after having once started 
out on the expedition. How he did detest art gal- 
leries and museums ! 

We found her, away off at the end of a long row 
of sculpture, looking rather lonely In her Ivorylike 
whiteness. She looked exactly like all of her photo- 
graphs and reproductions, and I was trying to think 
of something to say that would be worthy the occa- 
sion, when Mr. Whatley said: 

*'0h, I say, my dear! This Is really too much! 
The old girl doesn't grow a day older, — she looked 
just the same, exactly, ten years ago! Bah! I have 
a sort of uncanny feeling for a thing that doesn't 
show any of the marks of time ! A glance Is enough, 
quite enough, — It Is only an ordinary woman of 
unknown antecedents, with scant clothing on! A 
glance Is enough, quite enough!" 

74 



THE MAGIC CITY 75 

Away went all the fine things that I was trying to 
conjure up, and I laughed, and Miss Whatley looked 
reproachfully at her father, and then, we all laughed 
— right there, in the presence of the most celebrated 
of all the wonderful treasures of the Louvre. 

One would have to spend two hours a day for 
ten years to see all there is to be seen in this enor- 
mous gallery, so we promptly made up our minds 
not to be disappointed if we did not see it all the 
first day. However, there are many things that may, 
without inflicting any very severe pain, be over- 
looked. The difficulty is that one must see every- 
thing before he can tell what might have been over- 
looked. 

To really see the Louvre, — to really see Paris, — 
one would need to have at least two pairs of eyes; 
eyes to see the effect, and eyes to see the cause : a 
pair of eyes to see merely the physical, and a pair 
of fourth-dimensional eyes with which to see down 
through the buildings and things that we see to-day, 
into what has been. One cannot help feeling that 
way, when he comes to look at all these things. 
Some little knowledge of what the past has been, 
and of the lessons it has taught, will give one a 
keener insight into the present-day things with which 
we are confronted at every turn. Sometimes these 
things seem quite meaningless ; but, by turning back 
a few pages of history, a great light will be shed 
over them. 

If we had the other pair of eyes, we might look 
down, down through the magnificent pile of buildings 



76 PARIS 

called the "Louvre," and see far down below the 
shadowy outlines of the block-houses, — fortresses, 
perhaps, — from which, in all probability, it derived 
its name. But we cannot do this ; we may only look 
at what stands here to-day, — ^the remnants of a 
building a thousand years old! 

One almost becomes confused sometimes, when 
looking at certain buildings and churches, trying to 
remember what did, once upon a time, stand there. 
But it is difficult to reconstruct, unless one goes in 
for history, or psychology. 

Beneath the Pantheon was once an abbey. The 
— well, nearly everything stands on the site of 
what was once something else. How many things 
one might see beneath Notre Dame, if we only had 
the other pair of eyes! An altar to Jupiter, Childe- 
bert's church, and heavens knows what else. 

To any one interested in ancient Egypt and As- 
syria, the museum in the Louvre will be a treat. 
Here are hundreds of objects from those places, — 
sarcophagi, sphinxes, fantastic figures of gigantic 
proportions, with lion-like bodies and either human 
or rams' heads; monuments, headstones from far- 
away tombs, statues, bas-reliefs; great, terrible 
winged bulls, colossal figures, terra cottas — things 
that would fill a book just to enumerate them. I find 
a mysterious pleasure in looking at these objects 
that come to us from such a far-distant past, — ^I 
want to question them, — ^there is so much that one 
would like to know, — but, they never answer a word. 

Mr. Whatley put on his glasses and deigned to 



THE MAGIC CITY 77 

glance at a mummy or two, but pooh-poohed the 
whole collection and dismissed it with a wave of 
his hand. When I suggested that the French were 
great explorers and had practically invented the sci- 
ence of Egyptology, he said: 

"My word! A Frenchman never invented any- 
thing but a soup!" 

Nevertheless, "The Egyptian Museum is the 
largest and the most important in Europe. . It is 
not surprising that the collection here is far su- 
perior to that in the British Museum, when we con- 
sider that the Department of Antiquities in Egypt, 
from Mehemet Ali down to the Arabi Rebellion in 
1882, has been practically controlled by Frenchmen, 
and that, in short, the French savants might almost 
be said to have invented the science of Egyptology." 
However, it seems too bad to subdivide things as 
they do. Here is the enormous sarcophagus of Ram- 
eses III, while the mummy itself is at the Ghizeh 
Museum (where it ought to be !) and the lid of the 
sarcophagus is at Cambridge University. Poor old 
Rameses! How art thou divided! 

One comes again and again to look at the silent 
figures sitting there, so immobile ! — all that remains 
to tell the story of those old fellows who lived and 
fought, and loved, in that silent, mysterious land 
so long ago. Perhaps they are not dead, — only pre- 
tending. 

There is another Department, devoted to objects 
Phoenician. I cannot say "Phoenician" without at 



78 PARIS 

the same time thinking "Tyre and Sidon, and purple," 
— they are always linked in my mind. 

In this collection is a vase from Cyprus, which 
Baedeker says is twelve feet in diameter, all carved 
from a single block of stone. The Ancients seemed 
to have tremendous ideas. What in the world would 
any one do with a vase twelve feet wide? What 
could such a vase be used for? Mr. Whatley said 
it was "preposterous." 

Here is a great statue of the wise Marcus Aure- 
lius, and busts of all the Roman Emperors: history 
right before our eyes ! All kinds of thoughts come 
trooping through the brain as one stands and con- 
templates these old Romans. One feels himself in 
the presence of a strange life, as if watching a sol- 
emn procession of those who ought to be dead and in 
their tombs, but who, by some strange necromancy, 
have prolonged their lives beyond the boundaries 
of their tombs. They are not dead, — only feigning 
death, and something might cause them suddenly 
to spring again into activity. How much people to- 
day resemble them! Especially people of English 
blood. We still meet their actual counterparts out 
on the streets and boulevards, wearing the ordinary 
dress of to-day instead of their togas ; some of them 
are leading dual Hves, because they are still there, — 
on pedestals in the Louvre! 

In the Assyrian collection there are a number of 
enormous winged bulls which have been constructed 
with five legs instead of four; and truly, the extra 



THE MAGIC CITY 79 

leg would seem almost a necessity to support such 
a body if the creature were alive. 

There are also enormous winged lions with human 
heads, which, somehow or other, do not seem so gro- 
tesque as one might imagine, as I suppose they are 
all symbols of some form of thought. I found my- 
self going time after time to gaze at these monsters, 
and to revel in the train of thought that their con- 
templation invariably engendered, and felt that I 
could very well understand something of what Sir 
Henry Layard meant, when he said: 

I used to contemplate for hours these mysterious emblems, and 
to muse over their real end and history. What more noble forms 
could have ushered the people into the temple of their gods? 
(They used to stand at the entrance of temples.) What more 
sublime images could have been borrowed from nature by men 
who sought, unaided by the light of revealed religion, to embody 
this conception of the wisdom, power, and antiquity of a Supreme 
Being? They could find no better type of intellect and knowledge 
than the head of a man ; of ubiquity, than the wings of a bird ; 
of strength, than the body of a lion. These winged human-headed 
lions had for twenty-five centuries been hidden from the eye of 
man, and they now stand forth once more in their ancient majesty. 

One of the things that makes the Louvre different 
from other galleries, and much more difficult to 
comprehend, is that here are to be found paintings, 
sculptures, and antiquities of every size and descrip- 
tion, from all ages, and from all lands. Examples 
of every known artist, — not alone the French, but 
Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Flemish, British, far off 
and ancient Babylon, and, say it gently, even from 
America. This all makes visiting the Louvre ex- 
tremely difficult for all who have not unlimited time 
at their disposal. In Holland one sees Dutch paint- 



8o PARIS ' 

ing and Dutch scenes; in Belgium one may see Bel- 
gian art, and be enabled to form some idea of the 
work of the country; but here, there is everything 
from everywhere to be seen; and though I spent 
nearly three years in Paris, I never did see them all. 

Nearly everything in the collection of Greek statu- 
ary and sculpture is mutilated, — a head missing, or 
a leg or an arm or a toe, — something gone. It is a 
little depressing. It makes one long for the impos- 
sible; one wants to see it all "fixed" and made whole. 
I speak as a barbarian; artists always say: "No, let 
it alone!" 

Here is a fragment of the frieze of the Parthenon, 
which shows some young women of Athens march- 
ing along, holding most beautifully formed vessels 
of strange design, in company with a couple of 
priests, and I want so much to know what goes on 
before and what may be following them from the 
rear; there is an elusive something about it all that 
keeps one's mind roving. Well, let us be glad that 
we have even this much from that long, long ago. 

The things that attract and interest me amuse 
my companions, and they laugh at me, and then, — 
we all laugh at each other, and Mr. Whatley gener- 
ally winds up by saying: 

"Oh, you Americans are funny people!" 

Here is a sepulchral stele or grave stone, upon 
which is carved two persons in the act of shaking 
hands. That was carved there a long time ago, when 
people had ideas about death, reunion after death 
of the body, and all that sort of thing different from 



THE MAGIC CITY 8i 

those entertained by us to-day. Why do those people 
greet each other? Have they met before death, 
or after? Does It depict a reunion after death, or 
what? The subject of the carving interested me 
intensely, but when I tried to say something about 
it, Mr. Whatley exploded: "My word!" and left 
us long enough to go out into the Rue Castiglone 
to get a whiskey-and-soda. 

One's thoughts run riot while viewing the collec- 
tion of ancient pottery. It is not so much the pot- 
tery itself, as pottery, that is interesting; it is the 
thoughts and dreams that it suggests, until one is 
fairly enveloped in a veil of mysticism. 

There are a great number of figurines of Tana- 
gra terra cotta from Greece, which have been tinted 
and colored in all sorts of ways until they look very 
lifelike. They remind one of the lovely little figur- 
ines with which every one who has been to Mexico 
is familiar, and, like the Mexican figurines, are made 
to represent the occupations of the common, every- 
day life of the people. Therein lies their interest. 

I am not afraid to cross the ocean all alone, and 
I am not afraid to do lots of things that many brave 
people might hesitate to do, but I am, as the chil- 
dren say, "scared" to go all alone into the big room 
styled the "Salle des Caryatides." I don't hke it. 
It gives me the creeps. Four men were hanged in 
that room, and after Henry IV was assassinated, in 
1 6 10, his body lay in state in that room. I sup- 
pose they are all very dead by this time, but I do not 
like the room. 



82 PARIS 

There is something else curious in this room. 
There are two ancient basins of Cicilian marble, 
placed at some distance from each other, and if you 
whisper ever so faintly at the edge of one basin, 
your words can be distinctly understood by the per- 
son listening at the edge of the other basin away 
across the hall, even though a score of persons 
should be standing between, and not one of them 
could hear a sound. 

The place is full of interest, full of things that 
set up strange trains of thought, leading the mind 
into unusual places, — far out into those misty realms 
of speculation where we may not go at will, but must 
wait for the right line of thought to be started to 
take us in. 

This room is filled with magnificent statuary; 
beautiful figures of noble proportions on pedestals 
of huge blocks of stone, but the barrel-like ceiling 
seems somber; and when I look up at the blackness 
of the arched opening at the end of the room, close 
up to the ceiling, I feel shivery. Henry IV might 
come back and look down with a ghostly eye, or 
those one hundred and ten Pages, who got spanked 
in there one day, might set up a ghostly howl. No, 
I don't like it, — when I am all alone. One must 
have company when one visits the Salle des Carya- 
tides. 

Why should a dog-faced baboon adore the rising 
sun? What would a dog-faced baboon know about 
either adoration or rising suns? But here is a por- 
tion of the base of the obelisk of Luxor, and these 



THE MAGIC CITY 83 

horrid creatures are carved on it, and Baedeker's 
explanation is: *'Four cynocephali [dog-faced ba- 
boons] adoring the rising sun." Upon what queer 
highways has the imagination traveled! Or have 
there ever been dog-faced baboons? 

One beautiful morning we again found our way 
to the Louvre to see the Nike of Samothrace, 
(Winged Victory) , standing there on the top landing 
of the Daru staircase, — a fine, effective position, but 
one quite different from the prow of a trireme. That 
wonderful, long-sung drapery still floats about her, 
even though there is no breeze blowing ! But I wish 
she had not lost her head. 



CHAPTER IX 

THE BOURSE. A RAINY DAY 

The Bourse Is a fine, impressive building, built 
in imitation of the Temple of Vespasian at Rome. 
That was its only interest to me, but Mr. Whatley 
went over one day, and came back fairly snorting 
with disgust, — said that the men were mere "money 
grubbers," — "horrible persons"; that their faces 
were mean, with an eagerness to get money; was 
disgusted with their terrible noise, and screaming at 
each other. I listened, but laughed. I thought of 
our own Exchanges, and of some of the things that 
there transpire : of the "greased pig" at New Year's 
and the "straw-hat war" on the first of September, 
and a few other such harmless antics, but I said never 
a word. 

It sometimes rains in Paris. I had never thought 
of such a contingency; I had always thought of 
Paris as a place of perpetual sunshine and unlagging 
joy. But it rains, — sometimes. 

One morning, when we went to the windows to 
look out, as we invariably did immediately upon 
awakening, we were most surprised. A cold, slant- 
ing rain was falling; the streets had been washed 
§Q clean that they fairly shone, The cabmen were 

84 



THE MAGIC CITY 85 

passing along by the hundreds, all with large capes 
thrown over their shoulders, flapping back and forth 
in the wind, a sort of oil-cloth cover drawn down 
over their white stovepipe hats, the rain running in 
streams over the backs of the horses. 

This was delightful ! This was the first morning 
that we had missed seeing the street cleaners in their 
blue smocks, washing the streets with their garden 
hose attached to rollers, which they rolled along 
from one point to another. There was no need for 
them this morning. 

After a while we took a closed carriage and went 
out to see how Paris looked in a rainstorm. If you 
will give a cabman to understand that there is going 
to be a nice gratuity for him, he will be sure to help 
you to see all that you set out to see. And so, this 
morning in the rain our coachman drove us up one 
street and down another, — through crowded thor- 
oughfares, and further out, into the quiet quarters 
of the drenched city. 

Water was pouring in streams off the gutters of 
the tall old houses; was running in streams in the 
street gutters; was running in rivulets over the side- 
walks; umbrellas hid the faces of nearly every one 
making his way along under the dripping trees ; cab- 
men called to their clean-washed horses, and the air 
was full of the subdued noises of a rainstorm. 

We came to the Place de la Concorde. The whole 
place was covered with a soft veil of silvery mist, 
the gray-white rain falling down in long, slanting 
sheets; the obelisk looming big and gray, pointing 



86 PARIS 

a long gray finger to a gray sky ; the fountains tossing 
their white, foaming spray to the breezes that blew 
swift across the great square; carriages and cabs 
darting fantom-like through the gray mist, each go- 
ing its own way. Occasionally great omnibuses, of 
seemingly fantastic proportions, would rattle across 
with a waggle and roar, and disappear in the gray 
blotch of atmosphere. The black drapery of mourn- 
ing on the monument of lost Alsace-Lorraine hung 
limp and dank over the lugubrious figure, the bead 
wreaths shone in their fresh bath, and the Chevaux 
de Marly seemed to be looking about for some sort 
of shelter. Luncheon tasted unusually good that 
day in the brilliantly-lighted dining-rooms, and I have 
often wondered just how much effect a good dinner 
has had on the history of the world. 



CHAPTER X 

EN PENSION. BATHING IN PARIS. THE JULIEN 
ATELIER. NURSEMAIDS 

At length came the day when the Whatleys and 
I must part. Even at this distance of time I dislike 
to think about it. Our bon camaraderie had ex- 
tended from weeks into months, with never a break, 
— not even a ripple. We had traveled together 
as a family, we had gone into all kinds of strange 
and curious places together, we had eaten all kinds 
of strange and wonderful dishes together, and we 
had drunk all kinds of strange drinks together; had 
wandered about in the moonlight and seen all kinds 
of quaint and curious things together, — these two 
delightful English people and the one, lone Ameri- 
can woman. 

Through an introduction to a friend of Miss 
Whatley's, I found myself that same day installed 
in a "pension" on the Rue de Longchamps, not more 
than five minutes' walk from the Arc de Triomphe. 
Mrs. Harmon, — ^the friend of whom I spoke, — 
called at the Grand Hotel for me, and together we 
went to the pension kept by Madame Frangais, 
while the Whatleys were well on their way to their 
little green island. 

87 



88 PARIS 

Madame Frangais was a friendly little woman, 
bubbling over with kindness and an apparent inter- 
est in every one under her roof-tree. She had al- 
ways a smile on her face and a funny little twinkle 
in her large gray eyes. I had to look twice to see 
that she was not in reality smiling, as the suggestion 
was always there. 

She had ten guests, — every blessed one of them 
English. I was the only American. 

This was quite different from the grandeur of 
the large hotel on the Boulevard. des Capucines, but 
its coziness and friendly atmosphere amply compen- 
sated for the splendor left behind. 

The Pension was composed of two entire floors 
of a tall, gray old house, all the sleeping apartments 
being on the upper floor, and the parlors, dining- 
room, kitchen, library, smoking-room, and servants' 
quarters on the lower floor. Cerberus (the con- 
cierge) lived on the ground floor, and kept faithful 
tab on every one of us. I had read so much of this 
system of having doorkeepers, as it were, in Paris, 
that I expected to find it much worse than it really 
was. So far as I personally am concerned, I think 
it a very good arrangement, that is, if one is sure to 
get in before ten p. m. After that, — well, perhaps 
hotels are better. 

My room looked directly on the Rue de Long- 
champs, and had two large windows which opened 
all the way down to the floor. They had little lace 
curtains that exactly fitted the windows, one for each 
side of the opening, hung up tight and plain like 



THE MAGIC CITY 89 

a mat against the glass; then over these were red 
curtains of a thick, woolly material, which could be 
pulled back during the day. Two windows ! That 
was positive luxury when one understands that all 
windows are taxed in Paris. Miss Betham-Edwards 
says : 

The householder of narrow means must, above all, forego a 
cheerful outlook; and all windows, whether looking north or south, 
east or west, are taxed. . . . Doors and windows were first as- 
sessed under the Directoite, twenty centimes (four cents) only 
being charged per window in communes of less than five thousand 
souls; sixty (twelve cents) in those of the two first stories in 
communes of one hundred thousand. The new duty aroused a 
storm of opposition. "What!" cried a member of the cing cents, 
"if I wish to put a window looking east in my house in order that 
I may adore nature at sun-rising, I must pay duty? If, in order 
to warm the chilly frame of my aged father, I want a southern 
outlet, I must pay duty? And if, in order to avoid the burning 
heat of Thermidor, I wish for an opening north, I must pay 
duty? Surely it is possible to choose an imposition less objection- 
able and odious!" 

By a law of 1832, some modifications were made in favor of 
factories and workmen's dwellings. ... A Parisian window is 
often no window in the proper sense of the term. Colored glass 
is now much used ... to prevent neighbors from overlooking 
each other! 

One really should appreciate two windows with 
panes of clear, clean glass, giving an uninterrupted 
outlook on to a beautiful thoroughfare, when he un- 
derstands such conditions. I was always wonder- 
ing what the tax was on windows five stories above 
the street, but I never had the courage to ask Mon- 
sieur Frangais. 

One great drawback, however, was the fact that 
there was no bathroom, and to an American, this is 
a real hardship. Very well ! Each morning a large- 



90 PARIS 

sized rubber "dish-pan" was brought to my room, 
accompanied by an enormous copper jug of hot 
water. Upon the whole, it might have been worse, 
and I soon learned how to bathe in sections. One 
can send out for the "ambulatory" bath, too, which 
will be brought to the house at any moment desired. 
This I found very amusing. Of course, baths are to 
be found in all the large hotels, but in these old 
houses, they are seldom encountered. M. Rambaud 
says : 

W^e borrowed many things from England, not the least valuable 
being bodily cleanliness, a habit of copious ablutions, personal 
hygiene, that had made scant progress during twenty-five years 
of military campaign. 

Another author says that at the present time, the 
French are "Ardent devotees of le tub; tuber is now 
conjugated as a verb," — so, I suppose we might say: 
"I tub ; thou tubbest ; he-she-it tubs ; we tub ; they tub ; 
you tub," etc. 

The bed in my room was a very comfortable one, 
but the maid insisted upon covering my pillows with 
the counterpane, which made me feel lonesome, — I 
wanted my pillows left on the outside, and every 
day, after she had completed the room and gone, I 
pulled them out and placed them on the outside. 
That was one thing that I never could get used to : 
I could eat anything, and do many things, but I 
could not accustom myself to looking at a bed with- 
out pillows showing on the outside of the counter- 
pane. It makes a room look so ghastly lonesome. 

We had no light in the bedrooms except that of 



THE MAGIC CITY 91 

candles. Candles! I was delighted. Just think 
of getting into bed by candlelight ! In Paris, too ! 
I had to pinch myself and look again, to make sure. 

In France one sees in houses so many objects, — 
furniture, hangings, china, and so on, that looks as 
though they ought to be in the Louvre along with 
the rest of the old furniture and antiquities, instead 
of in a private home. I am told that the French 
when they furnish a home furnish it for all time, — 
there is no refurnishing or "doing the house over," 
as with us; hence, we see always, in nearly every 
house, pieces of beautiful old furniture, worn hang- 
ings, magnificently decorated china, lovely bits of 
pottery, and such things. It has been placed there 
to be used by future generations, and not to be dis- 
carded on the first day of May. 

There were so many little things concerning the 
common, everyday life of the family that amused 
me. Monsieur Frangais, a sort of little father to 
every guest in the house, would come home at about 
five o'clock each evening; let himself in with his own 
key, instead of ringing the bell; hang his hat on a 
tall, lean rack in the hallway; tiptoe into the sitting- 
room, then steal up behind his wife and kiss her first 
on one cheek, then on the other. Madame would 
always give a little scream, throw up her hands, and 
ejaculate something that I did not understand; then 
they would do it all over again, and then stand back 
and laugh at each other. Then, he would ask for 
"Maman" (Madame Frangais' mother), run in a 
sort of funny little dog-trot to wherever she hap- 



92 PARIS 

pened to be, and kiss her too, on each of her fat, 
rosy cheeks. I used to watch for this little comedy 
every day, when I happened to be at home, and it 
was always the same. I liked them because of their 
love for each other. 

The little old mother-in-law was truly the house- 
hold goddess. She was very fond of telling tales and 
legends, and was always pleased to find a hstener. 
She told me the most amazing things: stories of 
revolutions, fairy tales, — all sorts of things, which 
she declared to be true, and to which I never tired 
of hstening; then, if she saw that I really did be- 
lieve her, she would laugh at me. 

At the table, Madame sat at the center of one 
side of the table, instead of at the end, and Monsieur 
Frangais sat opposite her. At first this arrangement 
seemed a little strange to me, but after a while I 
hked it better, as it brought our hosts nearer to us, — 
the head of the table seeming so much further away. 
Monsieur Frangais always poured the wine and pre- 
pared the salad, and most wonderful sauces he could 
mix, right there at the table. 

We never went to the dining-room for breakfast : 
coffee, hot milk, rolls, and sweet butter were brought 
to our rooms at about eight o'clock in the morning 
by Annette, the bright, chirrupy little maid, — and 
we could hear her coming, too, long before she 
reached the door. Quietness in the early morning 
hours was not one of Annette's virtues. 

Mrs. Harmon was a student at one of the Julien 
studios, and was, at the same time, engaged in copy- 



THE MAGIC CITY 93 

ing a great painting in the Louvre for a church 
somewhere in England. She was a bright, clever 
woman, but my liking for her was based on the 
ground of her friendship with the Whatleys, rather 
than on her cleverness. 

One day, she asked me if I would like to go to the 
studio with her. Of course, I "liked," and so I went 
with her to the Rue de Berri, a street just off the 
Avenue des Champs Elysees, not far from the Arc 
de Triomphe. 

In a very large room were probably twenty or 
thirty students, — all girls, — with big, checkered 
gingham aprons fastened about them, right up to 
the neck. Each had a large easel before her and a 
canvas, or paper, resting on it. I believe every one 
was standing at work, although each was provided 
with a stool. 

In the middle of the room was a platform, quite 
high, upon which stood a young woman with pretty, 
fluffy brown hair fastened back from her face with 
a bandeau, but not another bit of anything else upon 
her. She had one arm extended and the hand lifted, 
in what seemed to me a very difficult pose; but she 
held it, and stood there, without any apparent move- 
ment, for fully a quarter of an hour. The instructor, 
whoever he was, went about from one student to 
the other, pointing out this and that, talking all the 
time. He would take off his glasses, suspend them 
at an acute angle, and then use them as a "pointer," 
correcting and suggesting. Then a sort of murmur 
went around the room, and before I knew what had 



94 PARIS 

happened (as I had not known what to expect), all 
were rushing toward the doorway, out into a large 
hall. The model then threw a heavy dark cloak 
around herself, and went out too. It was lunch 
time ! No one even so much as looked at the model, 
and I was told that no woman student would speak 
to a model who posed for the classes. Why? The 
poor girl ! They could not work without her. 

I was told that there was always a scramble for 
positions, — that the first arrivals got the most de- 
sirable positions; that each must sketch from the 
position in which she finds herself upon her arrival 
for the day's work. 

Upon this occasion, they were sketching in char- 
coal, and I was greatly interested in walking about 
and looking at the different sketches made from so 
many different angles. What a lot of difference a 
few inches make ! 

I was introduced to a number of the young stu- 
dents. They all seemed intensely in earnest, and 
talked shop all the time: what the instructor had 
said about this, and what he had said about that. 
None of them seemed to have an optimistic opinion 
of her own efforts; indeed all seemed a little de- 
pressed over their work; a little of the wind had evi- 
dently been taken out of their sails by that professor, 
whoever he was. This may, or may not have been 
true, but it seemed so to me. 

I presume the richness of the art all about them 
has a certain tendency to depress as well as to stimu- 
late. It creates that impalpable something called 



THE MAGIC CITY 95 

''atmosphere," undoubtedly, but at the same time it 
is fairly obvious that the glories and wonders of this 
world of art may be almost overwhelming to those 
who aspire to follow. 

In company with a number of others, we went to 
lunch at one of the Duval places, where many stu- 
dents go for luncheon. Upon entering, one is at 
once presented with a printed menu, the prices of all 
dishes set out at one side, upon v\^hich the waitress 
marks one's order as soon as it is given. Thus one 
always knows exactly what has to be paid, — he can 
keep tab on his score. If one wants a napkin, that 
is extra. Everything is spotlessly clean, and the 
food is excellent, although extremely reasonable in 
price. 

It was with a feeling of loneliness that I began 
once more to go about by myself, — ^to see, and look 
at whatever happened for the moment to strike my 
fancy; to indulge my moods, and to turn up my nose 
and make faces at the things I didn't like. I missed 
the Whatleys sadly, but, at the same time I realized 
that a person can see many things when all alone : 
thought is not disturbed by conversation, — the in- 
terior sense is stronger. One should always look 
at pictures alone. 

I would often walk down to the river, not far 
away, and stand there, leaning over the embank- 
ment, and watch the washerwomen in the long, low 
buildings along the Seine, where they work, wash- 
ing and pounding and beating their linen all day 
long. Seeing no signs of factories or mills, no tall 



96 PARIS 

chimneys, no black, spiraling curls of smoke, I asked 
Monsieur Frangais one day how all the people lived, 
how they earned a living, and so on. His answer 
was: 

"Oh, they wash each other's linen!" 

And after a time, it did not seem to have been 
such a foolish answer, for in all directions are to 
be seen the signs of laundries: "Blanchisserie" here, 
"Blanchisserie" there, everywhere, — and they do 
very beautiful work at very small prices. No wonder 
the French women can wear such dainty clothing! 
They do not have to spend a fortune to keep it clean. 
It cost me only ten cents to have shirtwaists done up 
in exquisite style. I could buy white kid gloves for 
as low as thirty cents, and get them cleaned for two 
cents. 

Sometimes I would just prowl about, up one 
street and down another, always finding much to 
interest me in the everyday life of the people about 
me : servants going to market with huge baskets on 
their arms; — people going to the rotisseries where 
already-cooked food could be had, strings of chickens 
hanging up by the open doorways, a great canopied 
stove about six feet long, filling up one side of the 
shop, birds turning over and over on long spits 
placed over the blazing charcoal fire. 

The locality in which I now found myself was a 
beautiful one, with lovely houses on wide tree-lined 
streets in all directions ; not a sign of poverty in the 
whole surrounding neighborhood; every street 
Straight and beautifully clean. Everything was ele- 



THE MAGIC CITY 97 

gant, but there was not a vestige of anything pic- 
turesque. Wealth and elegance do not seem to go 
hand in hand with picturesqueness. I must admit 
that modern comforts are much to be preferred, 
when it comes right down to the point of actualities, 
but the old-time houses are so much more interest- 
ing, — ^to look at, at least. 

Only two or three blocks away was the Trocadero, 
which fills the eye with its huge dimensions, and 
whose great towers I had so often seen from the 
river, and at far distances. There was the Rue de 
Lubeck to be explored, and the Avenue Kleber, Ave- 
nue Henri Martin, Avenue Victor Hugo, Avenue 
Marceau, Place d'lena. Rue Boissieri, Rue Mala- 
koff. Rue de Chaillot, the Champs Elysees, — ^all 
within a few minutes' walk of my new home. Oh, 
yes! and the residence of the Countess de Castellane, 
nee Anna Gould, in the Rue Malakoff. This great 
palace, of a pinkish marble, looks more like an art 
gallery than a home; but it is beautiful. 

Just a few steps away was the Guimet, — 2i museum 
devoted to those objects which best illustrate the re- 
ligions of the far East: idols, statuettes, models, ob- 
jects taken from temples, votive offerings to differ- 
ent gods, jewels, and such things. Each time, I came 
away with a new religion. One time, I was a Bud- 
dhist; another time, a most devoted follower of Con- 
fucius; another, a follower of Tao, or a full-fledged 
Brahmin. One can choose any religion he likes, for 
an hour or two, and feel none the worse for his 
change of view. 



98 PARIS 

The small building is itself a beauty, — a little gem 
set in its green surroundings of grass and trees, — 
a fit habitation for this extremely interesting collec- 
tion. 

There are such numbers of nursemaids, most won- 
derfully dressed. Yards of ribbon hang from their 
caps, — in some instances, down to the hem of their 
skirts, — of the brightest and most joyous shades of 
red, green, blue, yellow and combinations of colors : 
"Alsatian" caps they are called, I believe. The 
nurses wearing gray circular cloaks and mob-caps, 
with long streamers of wide ribbon reaching to the 
bottom of their skirts, are wet nurses, and the rib- 
bon costs as much as two dollars a yard, it being 
manufactured for this special purpose: red for a 
boy's nurse, and blue for a girl's. They add a cer- 
tain note of color to the gray-and-green thorough- 
fares that is very pleasing to the eye. 

These things may all be commonplace, but the 
commonplace things of Paris were all so many new 
and interesting things to me, as they were being seen 
for the first time. One can form no idea of the dif- 
ference in the nursemaids of different countries until 
he has seen them. There is a wide difference be- 
tween those of Holland and those of Paris. 

Everybody at the pension laughed because I had 
found anything of interest in the fact, and were 
thoroughly amused at an American's ideas of things. 
Each evening at dinner they were all ready for my 
account of the day's sight-seeing. Of course, they 
laughed — we all laughed. They were always telling 



THE MAGIC CITY 99 

me how to see this and how to go about seeing that, 
and many times would go with me to make sure that 
I would see whatever it happened to be that they 
wanted me to see. 

I do not have the pleasure in looking at the houses 
of Paris that I had in looking at the queer old houses 
of the Netherlands. One does not see here the 
stair-step roofs with their goggle-eyed windows ; one 
sees instead the steep Mansard roofs, with their lace- 
like borders of iron grill work and their pot chim- 
neys. 

The trees, however, compensate for much, — trees 
in all directions, on all streets. Perhaps the rich 
green of the thousands and thousands of beautiful 
trees that line the streets of Paris, appeals as much 
to one's sense of the beautiful as anything else in 
the whole city; and I believe that they are a real com- 
mercial commodity, attracting the thousands of peo- 
ple who love to come here to spend their money, 
although, from all accounts, the Parisians them- 
selves have not always appreciated their beauty and 
commercial value. From an old letter written in 
February of 1848, I was amazed to read with what 
disregard the people treated their lovely trees. 

There is hardly a tree left on the boulevards, the Champs 
Elysees are devastated, the Palais Royal much injured by fire, the 
Tuileries gutted, the streets pulled up. ... I walked all down 
the boulevards on Monday, and never saw such fearful havoc. 
From the Rue de la Paix to Montmartre there is not a tree, not 
a column, not a lamppost, not even a railing left standing. Even 
the wooden shelters of the coach inspectors are lying in the middle 
of the roadway, charred and smouldering ruins. 



loo PARIS 

The mind must work with diligence to gain any 
realization of such a condition, when to-day every- 
thing looks so joyous, and the green trees wave in 
all directions. 

Some afternoons I would take my little silk work- 
bag and go to the Champs Elysees and do as nun- 
dreds of other women did, — sit there, under the 
trees, in a comfortable boulevard chair, and make 
"fancy work," keeping an eye on the street and on 
my busy, chattering neighbors. Thousands of car- 
riages drove by every afternoon on the way to the 
Bois, and whether one knows any one in them or 
not, the sight is an interesting and amusing one. 



CHAPTER XI 

l'ile de la cite, the conciergerie. sainte 
chapelle. notre dame 

One day I set out all alone, to see what I could, — 
and what I might enjoy, — of the small island in the 
Seine called the lie de la Cite, where are to be found 
most of the buildings devoted to government pur- 
poses, to the administration of law, order, and jus- 
tice, — all under the shadow of the Cathedral of 
Notre Dame. Perchance the close proximity of 
the miracle-working Virgin may tend to temper jus- 
tice with mercy. 

As this little island was in reality the nucleus of 
Medieval Paris, this location for Government build- 
ings may perhaps be a natural one, although in the 
present day it seems a little out of the way. How- 
ever, this is the spot upon which to study the history 
of the town, if one wants to indulge in that pastime. 

The Palace of Justice itself is a very old building 
(portions of it, at least), but one would never think 
of it as such, with its fresh white curtains draped at 
the windows, as in a private home, its general air of 
freshness, and its great gilded clock that never 
strikes when I happen to be near. However, it is 

10 1 



I02 PARIS 

in fact nearly a thousand years old; Indeed, it was 
an old building long before we were even discovered. 
I suppose there must have been quite a little excite- 
ment when the news was heralded up and down these 
corridors that a new continent had been discovered. 

Joining on to it, forming a long unbroken street 
line along the Seine, is the Conciergerie, with its 
conical-shaped towers, giving the place, in that one 
spot, a medieval appearance that is at once attrac- 
tive and repelling. Poor Marie Antoinette ! I do 
not suppose it would be possible for one to look at 
this old prison without thinking of the poor, ill-fated 
queen; for here it was, in a miserable little cell, that 
she spent her last days. When I reached the place, 
I found that I might not go in unless I had a permit. 
I was disappointed, and suppose I must have looked 
as I felt, for an officer told me to go to a certain 
room of the Prefecture and ask for a permit, and 
that it would be given to me, but, at the same time, 
he looked as if he were not quite sure of it, as I was 
a lone woman. However, I had the courage to do 
as he advised, although I dislike prisons of every 
sort, and all prison officialism. 

When I opened the door of the office in the Pre- 
fecture and went in, with what seemed to me a very, 
very modest request, the man in charge, an officer, — 
a big portly man with pink cheeks and dark mus- 
taches, looked at me; then, without any words, 
asked: 

"How many?" 

When I said I only wanted one wee little ticket, 



THE MAGIC CITY 103 

he looked up at me again, and then laughed, — 
laughed loud and heartily, — and gave me the per- 
mit: about half a foot of it. I at once went back 
and presented it, and was thus enabled to see all that 
I wanted to see of the horrible place. One feels the 
atmosphere strongly, and I never went back again. 

Most of the revolutionary prisoners were con- 
fined in the Conciergerie before their heads were 
finally chopped ofi and their numbers added to the 
score of the "knitting women." 

A little monument has been placed in the cell of 
the poor queen. 

Her room was the third door on entering to the right ... it 
was on the ground floor, the window opening on the courtyard, 
which was crowded all day with prisoners, who looked in through 
the glass and insulted the queen. 

The first cell occupied by her was the old Council Chamber of 
the Conciergerie, but after the plot called the "Affair of the 
Carnation," she was removed to the one described in the Diurnal 
of Beaulieu, under date of October i6th, 1793, (the day of her 
execution) as the most damp, unhealthy, fetid and horrible prison 
in Paris. 

They say that the hackney-coach which brought the unfortunate 
queen to the Conciergerie was filled with blood; that the driver 
did not know, but that he suspected whom she was, having had to 
wait a long time; that on arriving at the Conciergerie, it was some 
time before they alighted; that the man got out first, and the 
woman after; that she supported herself on his arm, and that 
he found his coach all filled with blood. 

What, in the name of Heaven, had they done to 
the poor queen? One does nothing but exclaim: 
"Poor Queen!" 

Mr. E. A. Reynolds-Ball says: 

To none of the numerous prisons of the Terror, prolific as they 
are in tragic and pathetic associations, does a greater sentimental 
interest attach than to the dungeon in which the heroic Marie 



I04 PARIS 

Antoinette spent her last days. After a captivity of nearly a year 
in the Temple, the ill-fated queen was removed, on the 5th of 
August, 1792, to a dark cell in the basement of the Tour Bombee, 
lighted from the courtyard by a single loophole of a window. 
Here watched night and day by gendarmes, she remained till 
October 15, 1793, when she was taken before the Revolutionary 
Tribunal. . . . The next day the daughter of the Caesars left her 
cell forever, to be conveyed in a rough trumbril to the guillotine, 
on the Place de la Concorde. 

This historical dungeon, which M. Vitu feelingly declared 
"could not contain the tears which it has caused to be shed, and 
ought to have been walled up in order to bury the memory of a 
crime unworthy of the French nation," was transformed into a 
Chapelle Expiatoire by Louis XVIII in 1816. . . . The Prison 
Chapel adjoining was the hall of the Girondists, in which this 
most enlightened party of the revolutionists are said to have cele- 
brated their last night by a banquet. 

Right next to Marie Antoinette's cell is the one 
in which it is said the monster Robespierre spent a 
short time before they took him out for the final 
coincidence. That is one execution that fills me with 
a barbarous satisfaction. 

Through the small windows of the corridor lead- 
ing to the cell of Marie Antoinette one can see the 
stone table and the fountain where the female pris- 
oners went to make their toilettes. It is still used as 
a prison for criminals; and if they feel anything of 
the history of the place, it must affect them in any 
way but a cheerful one. And the Morgue, too, not 
very far away! 

There are some magnificent apartments still to be 
seen in the Palace of Justice. There is one huge 
room, paved in black and white marble, with a 
vaulted ceiling of painted and gilded wood, that is 
well worth seeing. It is known as the "Salle de 



THE MAGIC CITY 105 

Marbre." The Salle des Perdus is also a magnificent 
room 240 feet long. 

Every man I met in the place was politeness it- 
self, and the officer who admitted me talked in a 
very pleasant way, but I confess very frankly that 
I should not like to be taken as a prisoner and placed 
there in solitary confinement. Think of all the 
thoughts that might crowd in upon a lone prisoner 
in that place ! And even to-day, it is still a prison, — 
a prison for those destined for the assizes, and for 
those who have been condemned to death. 

Sainte Chapelle (the Holy Chapel), adjoining the 
Palace of Justice, and really a part of it, once wit- 
nessed all those horrors, as well as all those gorgeous 
pageants and ceremonies that took place when roy- 
alty inhabited the Cite. And to-day one can scarcely 
enter its precincts without the mind wandering off, — 
far away from the jeweled windows and gorgeous 
surroundings, — on a still hunt for those who once, 
long ago, trod these spaces; and especially for him, 
the saintly king. One could hardly enter here and 
not think of Saint Louis, although we can see him 
but dimly, half hidden as he is by the mists of legend 
and tradition. Already he seems half mythical, and 
the descriptions of him are of a man half saint, half 
man, such as the following quotation : 

King Louis was tall of stature, with a spare and graceful 
figure; his face was of angelic sweetness, with eyes as of a dove, 
and crowned with abundant fair hair. As he grew older, he 
became somewhat bald and held himself slightly bent. "Never," 
says Joinville, when describing a charge led by the king, which 
turned the tide of battle, "saw I so fair an armed man. He 
seemed to sit head and shoulders above all his knights. His 



io6 PARIS 

helmet of gold was most fair to see, and a sword of Allemain 
was in his hand. Four times I saw him put his body in danger 
of death to save hurt to his people." 

No matter what he really looked like, this is a 
marvelously-wrought jewel that he has given to man- 
kind, filling one with some subtle, undefined emotion. 
Buildings influence some persons as music or colors 
do other persons. Sometimes the dividing line seems 
to be very faint; one can almost, — ^but not quite, — 
catch a glimpse of what lies just beyond his ken. 
Well, no matter; they are not here, — they have all 
gone, — even the sacred relics! And we can come^ 
Guide Book in hand, and never encounter one of 
them. We may gaze and marvel as long as we like. 

At first sight, one is almost dazzled by the gor- 
geousness of the light falling in long beams through 
the fifteen fifty-foot windows of the Sainte Chapelle, 
each window filled with the most magnificent, jewel- 
like colored glass, containing a thousand or more 
complete pictures. It seems a miracle. The stories 
told in this beautiful stained glass are the usual 
ones, — Old and New Testament stories, — ^one win- 
dow being devoted to the story of the finding and 
translation of the sacred relics, and Crown of 
Thorns, and a portion of the true cross, for the safe 
housing of which Saint Louis had the Chapel built. 
Here is poor old Saint Denis, walking along, non- 
chalantly carrying his head in his hands, much as a 
gentleman of to-day might carry his hat if his head 
happened to need a little fresh air. Saint Sebastian 
seems quite resigned to his arrows. Saint Lawrence 



THE MAGIC CITY 107 

to his gridiron, and Saint Stephen doubtless under- 
stands, from his appearance at least, that those hor- 
rible stones are only painted. But the gorgeousness 
is beyond mere words. 

I would sometimes go, quite alone, and spend an 
hour or so just gazing at the beauty of the place, — 
at the unspeakable beauty of the great rose window; 
at the colored shadows across the floor, — reveling 
in the blue and begilded atmosphere that floods the 
whole place. 

There are two parts, an upper and a lower. The 
upper room is dedicated to the relics, and the lower, 
to the Virgin. I prefer the one dedicated to the 
relics, although they are now over in Notre Dame; 
at least, they say — well, let us believe ! What dif- 
ference can it make whether they are there or not? 
One feels so much better to believe everything. 

What strange things are told of these relics^ — of 
their power to work cures of horrible diseases and 
so on. History is history; if we believe one thing, 
why not the other? S. S. Beale tells of one curious 
thing : 

On the Good Fridays of each year the chapel scarcely sufficed 
to contain the crowds of sick persons who flocked to it from all 
parts of the city. All maladies were supposed to be curable 
through the virtues of the holy relics, but especially that known 
as le mal caduc. At midnight the relic of the True Cross was 
exposed, and at the same moment the chapel was filled by the 
most fearful shrieks of these poor epileptics. The afflicted threw 
themselves about, foamed at the mouth and fell into convulsions, 
invoking the aid especially of S. John the Baptist and S. Spire. 

The people were convinced every year that some wondrous 
miracle had been wrought; but the abuses connected with this 
nocturnal exposition were so great that, in 1781, Louis XVI ordered 
it to be discontinued. 



io8 PARIS 

To my mind, the roof Is almost as lovely as the 
chapel itself, with its airy, lacelike fleche, its spires 
and angels, and its quaint gargoyles. 

A curious legend is related in connection with the actual design 
which was accepted for the Holy Chapel. Two of the candidates 
for the work met on their way to Paris, at an Alpine inn, and 
the younger, an enthusiastic and confiding artificer, showed his 
plan to his fellow-traveler, who preserved silence about his 
own plan. 

That night the elder of the two attempted to murder his rival, 
stole the plan, and set off for Paris early the next morning. King 
Louis was delighted with the design, and entrusted this unknown 
artist with the task of building the chapel. When it was finished 
the architect retired secretly to a monastery, in order to expiate 
his heinous crime. 

The actual designer became mad, and, some years afterward, 
wandered to Paris; whereupon, seeing the realization of his plan 
in stone, he suddenly recovered his reason. It was, however, 
too late; his story was discredited, and the unfortunate architect 
died in obscurity. 

Rest to his troubled soul! We will revel in its 
beauty, no matter who designed it. History says 
that Pierre de Montereau designed it. 

These wonderful churches ! How can they be 
described? Mr. T. Okey, in speaking of the so- 
called Dark Ages, says: 

Within and without, the temples of God were resplendent with 
silver and gold, with purple and crimson and blue; the saintly 
figures and solemn legends on their porches; the capitals, the 
columns, the groins of the vaultings were lustrous with color 
and gold. Each window was a complex of jeweled splendor: 
the pillars and walls were painted or draped with lovely tapestries 
and gorgeous banners; the shrines and altars glittered with pre- 
cious stones, — jasper and sardius and chalcedony, sapphire and 
emerald, chrysolite and beryl, topaz and amethyst and pearl. 
The church illuminated her sacred books with exquisite painting, 
bound them with precious fabrics, and clasped them with silver 
and gold ; the robes of her priests and ministrants were rich with 
embroideries. 



THE MAGIC CITY 109 

I was always trying to make myself think that I 
liked the Cathedral of Notre Dame. So much has 
been said and written of it that I felt foolish, — that 
there must be something wrong with me, through and 
through, — ^that I could not care for it. I said to my- 
self: 

"Come, my child; let us reason together." 

But I did not like it. I went dozens of times, al- 
ways with the idea that I would like it in time ; but 
I never overcame a certain dislike of that great and 
glorious cathedral. There were times when it seemed 
beautiful and wonderful to me; but that spirit of 
sacredness, of something holy and mysterious, which 
was so strongly felt in other cathedrals, was, some- 
how or other, missing. I could not create it for 
myself. 

Notre Dame is, as we all know, a great and mag- 
nificent cathedral, but for some reason it never pos- 
sessed any attraction for me. I have sometimes 
thought that the proximity of that dreadful Morgue 
just behind it had something to do with this antip- 
athy. In the rear of the cathedral, the Morgue ! 
Near the west gallery entrance, the horrible, un- 
speakably repulsive statue of Etienne Yver being de- 
voured by worms while two saints seem to be making 
some very feeble attempt to save him ! and, away up 
on the top, those devilish gargoyles leering over the 
city, frightening away the good spirits that might feel 
any inclination to take up their habitation in the 
place, and send their beneficent influence far down 
below ! Much incense would be required to dissipate 



no PARIS 

the combined influence of so many malignant spirits. 

The exterior was much more pleasing to me than 
the interior; there was hght and air outside, and, 
too, one could run if one got "scared." It may be 
that some influence of the Temple of Reason still 
lingers about the church, when the sculptures were 
all spoiled and mutilated; when the image of the 
Virgin was replaced by the one of "Liberty." Lib- 
erty is all very good in its place, but every right has 
its own limitations. 

Ah, the stained glass of the windows! That is 
beautiful! I was going to say something about 
those windows at Brussels; but what is the use of 
comparisons, except to spoil things? One could not 
fail to admire the great rose window over the front 
entrance. Forty-two and one-half feet of most gor- 
geous colors, casting their red, green, blue and 
golden reflections across the somber grayness of the 
great floor, in a dazzling circle of lights! The rose 
windows of the northern and southern transepts are 
just as gorgeous, but the beaming sunshine enters 
there with rather more reluctance than it does 
through the great western window. 

Viollet le Due, "the great architect, has described 
how his passion for Gothic was stirred when, taken 
as a boy to Notre Dame, the rose window of the 
south seized upon his imagination. While gazing 
at it the organ began to play, and he thought that 
the music came from the window — the shrill, high 
notes from the light colors, and the solemn, bass 
notes from the dark and more subdued hues." 



THE MAGIC CITY iii 

I would often go, and just wander idly about, 
looking at whatever happened to interest me at the 
moment, inhaling the incense, and thinking of the 
many things, tales and legends, that I had heard in 
connection with this church of "Our Lady." 

The miracle-working statue of Our Lady of Paris, 
which stands just at the intersection of the southern 
transept with the nave, is lovely, — a beautiful woman, 
tall and stately, suggesting a queen rather than a 
Madonna, a sweet, benign expression on her lovely 
face, — is generally surrounded by bunches of glim- 
mering candles. Come in on a dark day, and there 
she stands, the glittering, fluttering tapers all about 
her; and afar off, through the haze of incense, one 
sees the high altar whereon dozens of candles are 
smoking and gleaming through the gloom. If I 
could like Notre Dame at all, it would be on a dull 
day. It is interesting to note the immense personal 
popularity of some Virgins, and Our Lady is un- 
doubtedly one of the popular ones. 

Another time, on a gloriously bright day, I went 
in. I heard the great organ for the first time. Music 
makes a great difference in one's devotion. The sun 
sent down long, quivering shafts of light through the 
many-colored windows, and a golden splendor 
seemed to envelop the whole place, making the 
candles about the wonderful Virgin mere points of 
silvery lights through the long distance. Candles 
were lighted in many of the thirty-seven chapels, 
it being evidently a feast day of some kind. 

There was one thing that occurred here in the 



112 PARIS 

year 1728 — a curious thing, containing many ele- 
ments of the humorous, if one can overlook the seri- 
ousness of its results: 

Some scaffoldings erected for the purpose of repairing the roof 
afforded a gang of daring thieves the means of concealing them- 
selves among the rafters. At the first versicle of the Second 
Psalm of the Vesper Service, the signal agreed upon, they dropped 
a number of beams, planks, and tools from the top of the roof 
down into the midst of the throng below ; at the same instant 
their colleagues stationed near the different doors set up a shout 
that the roof was falling, and in the terrible panic and confusion 
that followed, stole quantities of snuff-boxes, watches, rings, and 
other jewels. So great was the crush that upwards of four hun- 
dred persons, either injured or knocked insensible, had to be 
provided with hastily-improvised litters and looked after in the 
Parvis Notre Dame. 

The thieves meanwhile got off safely with their booty that time, 
but it is supposed that they belonged to the celebrated band of 
Cartouche, all of whom were executed on the Place de Greve 
some years later. 

It would seem almost unjust to execute men who 
could work such a scheme as that. 

The coronation of Napoleon, as described by 
Thiers in "Histoire de I'Empire," would make any 
one who was not a Catholic grin: 

On the altar had been already placed the crown, the scepter, 
the sword, and the robes. The Pope anoints the forehead of 
Napoleon with the holy oil, then blesses the sword and scepter, 
and draws near to place the crown on his head. Napoleon, ob- 
serving his intention, decidedly, but without brusquerie, takes the 
crown from the hands of the Pope and places it himself on his 
head. 

This act, whose significance was understood by all taking part 
in the ceremony, produced an indescribable effect. Then Napoleon, 
taking the crown of the Empress in his hands, approaches Jose- 
phine, who was kneeling before the throne, and places it with 
manifest tenderness on the head of his consort, who at that 
moment burst into tears. Then Napoleon ascended the imperial 
throne, his brother holding the hem of his robes. 

The Pope, according to usage, proceeds to the foot of the 



THE MAGIC CITY 113 

throne to bless the newly-crowned sovereign and entoned those 
lines which had resounded in Charlemagne's ears in Saint Peter's 
when the clergy of Rome had suddenly proclaimed him Emperor 
of the West, "Vivat in asternum semper Augustus!" Thereupon 
cries of "Vive I'Empereur!" a thousand times repeated, rang 
through the aisles of Notre Dame; and at the same instant salvos 
of artillery announced to all Paris the solemn moment when 
Napoleon was consecrated. 

Napoleon, it seems, was really crowned by him- 
self and not by the Pope. 

The three great entrances are all outlined with 
sculptures, — the one in the center being outlined by 
figures representing the Last Judgment. I do not 
object to the twenty-eight Kings of Israel and Judah 
standing there in a row on the front of the cathedral, 
but I do object to the horrible gargoyles, — hideous 
monsters of unclassified animals, — perched about, 
over the walls and towers. Why should they 
be on a church? They represent devils, birds of 
prey, dragons, wild animals of all kinds, many of 
them half-man and half-beast, and nearly all of 
them are depicted with gaping jaws. One, more 
horrible than some of the others, is in the act of 
tearing a rabbit limb from limb; another is crunch- 
ing a poor little mouse; one devil has stuck his 
teeth into the back of a smaller devil and is carrying 
him away. Hideous monsters they are; but I notice 
that they are on a number of churches in Paris; that 
they are a part of the drainage system. 

The flying buttresses would naturally arrest the 
attention of any one who had never seen any before. 
When I first saw them, I just stood and gaped. 
What mysterious looking things, — like a row of 



114 PARIS 

great arms stretched out and then curved upwards, 
to hold the church and keep it from falling! Seen 
by moonlight, from across the river, the effect is ex- 
quisitely beautiful; the whole becomes invested with 
a majesty whose influence never quite fades from the 
mind. 

Even the great space before the cathedral I do 
not like, — the "Parvis Notre Dame," — it still sug- 
gests executions and criminals, as well as untold num- 
bers of innocent victims. They used to bring the 
condemned here before their execution, and force 
them to tell the public how sorry they were for their 
crimes. Saints and angels defend us ! If guilty, 
the only sorrow would be because of discovery, and 
not for the act committed, and who could blame 
them? That kind of sorrow doesn't count for any- 
thing. 

Every one said I must be sure to climb to the 
tower. Heaven forgive me, — I did I The view is, 
of course, all that is claimed for it, — beautiful. One 
can see all Paris, when there is not too much haze. 
I should advise every one to make sure of that 
before the climb is made, for it is no easy task. The 
gargoyles again ! From what strange realm did the 
artist secure his models for those awful creatures? 
There are over two thousand of them, and no two 
are exactly alike. I like very much what S. S. Beale 
has said of these creatures: 

The exterior decoration of Notre Dame is very rich. Gargoyles, 
monsters of the most grotesque type, called also tarasques and 
magots, are there, encircling the towers, and disputing their im- 
portance with the Angel of the Judgment. The monsters stand, 



THE MAGIC CITY 115 

as they did centuries ago, gazing down upon Paris and its doings 
for good or for evil. Think of the events they have witnessed 
from the burning of fifty-four Templars in a slow fire by Philippe 
IV., to the horrors of the Commune. They must have seen the 
flaming villages and chateaux during the Jacquerie, and witnessed 
those useless sorties during the last war, when the Parisians 
vainly endeavored to escape from the city and gain one of the 
outside army corps. They seem to look down in scorn upon 
humanity — . . . and all the ages through, the brutes have had 
the same expression of scorn, of spite, of diabolical ugliness, that 
one feels it to be a comfort that they are fixed safely to the 
gallery of the towers, out of the way of working mischief. 

But that Is Paris. The whole history of the city 
fairly bubbles with the amusing, with romance; and 
perhaps this it is that takes the horror from all its 
grimmest tragedies. One settles down to study the 
history of a church, of a monument, of a locality, — 
of what not? — and up bobs some gargoyle, some bit 
of romance or tomfoolery that throws the couleur 
de rose over it all, and we forget the disagreeable 
in our contemplation of the gargoyle, or the ro- 
mance, or some mirth-producing episode. Death, 
bloodshed, riot, war, — who could connect them with 
Notre Dame as we see it to-day? Yet they are all 
tightly linked with its long history. 



CHAPTER XII 

OLD PARISIAN STREETS. JEAN VALJEAN 

Some days I would take an adventurous plunge 
into the unknown, — would simply board a tram and 
ride until I came to some spot or street that seemed 
to offer opportunities for exploration and investiga- 
tion, or to some point of which I had heard or read. 

I had often heard of the interesting streets in the 
older parts of Paris, and I made up my mind to find 
some of them and see them for myself. To see 
things for oneself, — that is the thing! 

One day I took a tram, mounted to the hurricane- 
deck, went out on the Boulevard Saint Germain, and 
there I sat, looking at the long rows of tall, fine 
old houses, which were once (and still are, I believe) 
the homes of members of the aristocratic old fami- 
lies. The exteriors do not tell much to the casual 
visitor; one must turn to history and romance to 
know what the interiors are like. Here and there 
I recognized some house that had been made famous, 
or at least of interest, from the accounts given to 
us by historians and different writers of novels or 
romances. 

At Saint Germain des Pres, I left the tram, and 
started in to just prowl about, to wherever my fancy 

U6 



THE MAGIC CITY 117 

happened to dictate. All about this lonely-looking 
old church of a bygone time are dozens of little, nar- 
row, shadowy streets, lined with queer old houses, 
tall and lean, with big square chimneys, capped by 
the long, black chimney-pots that crown their roofs. 

Here were numbers of streets of which I had 
sometimes read; one picturesque little street was 
called the "Cour de Rohan" (Rouen) not far from 
Saint Germain des Pres. Old mansions with high, 
steep roofs were all along the street, their timeworn 
faces all weather-stained, but still looking on bravely 
at the life that paraded itself before their long, nar- 
row, doorlike windows, and making an effort to ap- 
pear as young as ever, by decorating them with gay 
geraniums in low boxes placed in the windows, — the 
poor old gray houses all mixed up with the fresh, 
lovely young flowers. 

Some of these old houses have faces, very expres- 
sive faces, — faces which one instinctively likes or 
dislikes, faces that go straight to the heart. 

It is very quiet and tranquil back here in these 
long-ago streets. It doesn't seem at all like Paris, — 
like one's preconceived ideas of Paris; but to see 
this old part, over here across the river, is to see 
something of what the city once was like, and to 
come time and time again to visit it. I walked on 
and on. People passed me, looked at me, but never 
a word was said to me. Sometimes I would turn 
around to stare after some one who had passed me, 
only to find him or her doing the same thing. Dread- 
ful! 



ii8 PARIS 

Near by I ran into another old street (more like 
an inner court of some monster mansion than a real 
public thoroughfare) of which I had often read, — 
the Passage du Commerce. It was filled with the 
same style of high old houses, from the windows of 
which dangled strings of clothes hung out to air (it 
must have been for air, as the clothes had not been 
washed) . A red blanket here, a bunch of something 
blue or green there, gave to the place a picturesque 
appearance that was extremely satisfying to the eye. 

Every once in a while I would come across a cart 
backed up against an old stone wall, filled with fruits 
or vegetables and, in a few instances, with old clothes 
for sale. Generally the proprietors were old ladies 
of very unattractive appearance and uncertain age, 
who never hesitated to offer their wares to any one 
coming along the street, with a persistence that 
sometimes was amusing, — to a mere onlooker. 

These old streets are so full of history and his- 
torical traditions that one feels almost as if she were 
treading on sacred ground. A whole volume, — 
many perhaps, — could be written of them; of who 
lived here, in this tall old mansion, or of who once 
lived in that strange, quiet old place, surrounded by 
its walled garden. 

Not far from Saint Germain, on a little street 
called Rue de Sevres, is the old house in which 
Madame Recamier lived during the time she was 
holding her immortal salons. One has an inclina- 
tion to go and ring the old door-bell- and inquire if 
Madame is "at home," but — she is not there. All 



THE MAGIC CITY 119 

that remains are her painted likenesses and remi- 
niscences, and we must pass on. 

I once ran into another lovely old street, — the Rue 
du Parcheminerie, — not far from the Boulevard 
Saint Germain, running from the pretty Rue de la 
Harpe to the Rue Saint Jacques: a lovely old-world 
street, with the same kind of high, narrow old 
houses, with their faded green-shuttered windows. I 
do not know that it has any "reputation" whatever, 
or that "anybody" ever lived in it, but I liked it for 
itself, for its quaint, quiet, well-bred, old-world ap- 
pearance. I loved to wander about the little old 
street, with its faded houses and quietude, — its lone- 
ly lanterns and flagstone pavements. 

Another attractive old street filled with high, 
narrow houses was the Rue du Jardinet; then I came 
upon the Rue Serpente, a narrow, winding street, 
and dozens of others. One could spend days in 
wandering about and ruminating upon what has 
been. The invocation of the gray, fading Past, one 
of the most exquisitely subtle pleasures of the mind, 
is quite possible to any one who spends a little time 
in rambling about these old streets, looking at these 
old houses of a bygone Paris. In some of them, it 
is a comparatively easy matter to call up, once more, 
the splendors of the past, and close out altogether 
the sense of modern life. In many of them, the 
venerable appearance of the timeworn buildings, 
and the silence of the long narrow spaces, readily 
lend themselves to such a mental pleasure. A cul- 
tured, or an imaginative mind, may find ample cause 



120 PARIS 

for emotion at almost every turn, for on almost all 
sides the personages of history or fiction seem to 
spring out from the long silences to greet us. One 
feels continually as though some of these characters 
were peeping from behind the faded green shutters, 
and wondering what we are doing down there in 
the streets. 

On the Boulevard Saint Germain is a great statue 
of Danton, which one cannot pass without being 
reminded of the Reign of Terror, and that it was 
in this very neighborhood that he lived — ^in the 
Rue des Cordeliers. So did Marat; but one would 
have to have unlimited time if he wanted to follow 
them all up and listen to the tales that they might 
have to tell. What a long vista of terrible events 
the very sight of this statue calls up to the mind! 
When informed of his death sentence, Danton re- 
plied to his grim messenger: 

"My dwelling will shortly be in nothingness. As 
to my name, you will find it in the Pantheon of His- 
tory." And he might have added, "and my statue 
in the Boulevard Saint Germain." 

But as one thinks upon these things, up bobs some- 
thing amusing that causes us to banish them into the 
mists that already begin to close over many of the 
tragedies of that time. The radiant attractions of 
history, — especially of French history, — would lose 
much if all were minutely explained, and the things 
doubtful gain much by our ability to cover them with 
the glamor of legends and that elusive something 
called "sentiment." 



THE MAGIC CITY 121 

Queer old Inns abound, too, but I could never find 
sufficient courage to enter them all alone. My com- 
panions at the pension threw up their hands in hor- 
ror, figuratively speaking, at the audacity of my 
prowling about in "such localities" alone. One small 
English woman said: 

"Are you dreadful Americans never afraid of 
anything? Just fancy walking about quite alone 
over there!" — shaking her head toward the river 
side of the house. 

I was surprised; I had not had the slightest fear 
or apprehension; it had not entered my head that 
there was anything to be afraid of, — that there might 
be any danger lurking in the open streets of Paris, 
even though they were narrow and crooked; and I 
must confess that I saw nothing whatsoever to dis- 
concert anybody in these nice, tranquil old streets, 
picturesque houses, and quiet, well-mannered people. 
li these old places really had bad reputations, they 
truly succeed in concealing them in the modest, de- 
cent faces which they present to the passing stranger. 

I went about in that vicinity many, many times, 
and never was troubled or molested in any way by 
anybody. People sometimes looked at me, perhaps 
because I seemed to be so aimless; but I should not 
have known it had I not been looking at them also. 

I believe wide streets and grand boulevards are 
destructive to the artistic impulse. The brilliant per- 
sonages of French history, — the great artists, mu- 
sicians, — seldom lived in wide thoroughfares. They 



122 . PARIS 

were nearly always to be found in the small, narrow, 
friendly, picturesque old streets. 

My enjoyment in wandering about was so con- 
tagious that I seldom ever had an opportunity after- 
wards to go alone, — all my fellow pensionnaires 
wanted to visit these localities too. I stumbled upon 
places, — beautiful old streets and fine old houses, — 
of which these people, who had lived for many 
years in Paris, had never even heard. However, I 
had not really discovered anything, — I was walking 
in the footprints of others, — I simply remembered 
the many things I had heard and read. 

Another old street that is teeming with remi- 
niscences of the past is the Rue Visconti, very near to 
the School of Fine Arts. It is so narrow that two 
carriages could not possibly pass each other, and 
the sidewalks are scarcely wide enough for one per- 
son; the other always walks out in the street. 

Here high old houses snuggle close up to each 
other, in a friendly, neighborlike way that might be 
very appealing were it not for the suspicion that they 
gossip. What things they might tell each other, be- 
hind the heavy green wooden shutters that screen 
nearly all of the long, narrow windows ! What they 
might tell of Jean Racine, who, once upon a time, 
lived in one of these tall old houses; of Balzac; of 
Adrienne Lecouvreur, the beloved of long ago, in 
whom Voltaire declared that he had found an ideal 
intellectual companion. "The fine old mansion at 
No. 115 Rue de Crenelle, next to the southeast cor- 
ner of Rue de Bourgogne, covers her grave." 



THE MAGIC CITY 123 

The place is teeming with phantoms; one might 
see them, — just catch a glimpse of some gray, 
shadowy form flitting through the street, or whisk- 
ing around some corner, or ringing one of the dull- 
looking old doorbells, if one could come at the 
psychological moment. 

There are some curious old, four-sided lanterns 
hanging over some of the doorways, and occasion- 
ally a door is opened wide enough to let one get a 
peep at a spot of garden in the rear of some of the 
houses. There may be gardens in the rear of them 
all, but I do not know. 

Prowling about the Boulevard Vaugirard one 
day, we came to a lonely-looking little street in south- 
ern Paris, known as the Rue Plumet. Readers of 
"Les Miserables" will recall that it was in this street 
that Jean Valjean lived, in his old house with its 
walled-in garden, with Cosette and the old house- 
keeper, after he left the Picpus Convent. What a 
lonely part of Paris ! Hardly a person was in sight, 
and we walked quietly along, looking in at numbers 
of walled-in gardens with lonely-looking old houses 
set far back; there were many of them in this vicin- 
ity. This is also not far from the Institut Pasteur. 

We did not limit ourselves, but went often, far 
from the lines of busy travel, and came bumping into 
alTTands of strange quarters. 

Mrs. Harmon and I walked and walked one day, 
up one old street, and down another. Sometimes she 
would make a hurried little sketch, and then we 



124 PARIS 

would wander on again, looking about for some pic- 
turesque cafe or inn in which to have luncheon. 

We found all kinds of queer-looking places, — 
dark-browed, narrow-eyed old inns, on streets whose 
names I cannot now recall. We would invariably 
enter with the firm determination to take only a cup 
of coffee and bread and butter, or something equally 
light, and just as often ended by ordering roast veal 
and green peas (as only the French can cook them), 
and eating some of everything in sight. One can find 
veal and green peas, cooked with a pinch of garlic, in 
every restaurant in Paris, I believe. Our resolu- 
tions, — no one's resolutions, — can possibly stand the 
test of the odors from a French kitchen ; one will eat 
whether he is hungry or not ; and if one is not hungry 
upon entering, he will find his appetite before many 
minutes pass by. 

Upon one occasion we found ourselves in a place 
where the diners all seemed to be acquainted with 
one another, — came in and sat down at a long table, 
evidently reserved, and ate and talked together in 
a way that showed long acquaintance. The proprie- 
tress took the cash in over a zinc counter, behind 
which were rows and rows of bottles; she superin- 
tended everything in the front part of the establish- 
ment, throwing out occasional remarks to the family- 
like diners at the long table, as though she knew 
them all very well. 

The persons at this particular table gave us just 
a passing glance, then paid no further attention to 
us. We sat at a smaller table over on the other side 



THE MAGIC CITY 125 

of the room. It was queer, but I could never find 
that place again, although we looked for it several 
times; it always eluded my researches; all I can 
vouch for is that it was not far from the School of 
Fine Arts. It was truly a very old-fashioned place, 
but served most excellent food at extraordinarily 
cheap prices. 

We sat there for a long time, over our coffee after 
the luncheon, and talked of things that we might 
never have thought of in another place. Environ- 
ment sometimes casts strange spells. 

On one side of the Luxembourg Gardens we ran 
into another beautiful, picturesque old thorough- 
fare, — the Rue Ferou. All along the street are 
quaint, tall, pot-chimneyed old mansions of five or 
six centuries ago, with their heavy old green-shut- 
tered windows, and their walled-in gardens, and 
walks about two feet wide. At the end of the street 
can be seen the high towers of Saint Sulpice, the 
trees of the Luxembourg Gardens adding just the 
needed touch of living green, and the reminiscences 
of Massena and Athos (both of whom once lived in 
this street) just the needed touch of sentiment. All 
of these old streets and houses are impregnated with 
the associations of these wonderful people, real and 
imaginary. It seems almost impossible that some of 
the characters created by Balzac, Dumas, and Hugo, 
were not real personages; and one continually feels 
like going out on a still hunt for some of them; it 
seems almost as if we might find trace of them, — 



126 PARIS 

somewhere. One of the beautiful things about the 
characters of romance is that they never die, — they 
live on and on, in a perpetual existence, so that it is 
not strange if sometimes amid these surroundings 
we feel as though we might catch a shadowy glimpse 
of some of them flitting around some gray corner. 

One of the "shadowy" ones, who might perhaps 
be flitting around some gray corner, and that I al- 
ways felt like looking for, was my beloved Lecoq, 
the wonderful creature of Gaboriau's inventive 
genius. Here he lived, in this long, narrow, slant- 
eyed, cross-grained old street, the Rue Montmartre, 
not very far from Saint Eustache. It is a very nar- 
row street, paved with flagstones, and over numbers 
of doorways are curious old square lanterns, and in 
nearly every window there is to be seen the sign 
^'Chambres a louer'^ (rooms to let). I wondered 
which house it was in which he had lived; there were 
numbers that answered very well to the description. 

These characters of fiction are sometimes much 
more strongly impressed upon the imagination than 
are those of history. All things said, however, this 
particular street is not one in which I should choose 
to dwell. It looks sinister, and has a more wicked 
look thai! do those other old streets. 

Not so very far away from the long stream of 
travel on the Rue de Rivoli, at No. 4 Rue du Mont 
Thabor, is the house in which our own beloved 
Washington Irving lived for a while, — another one 
of the tall old houses filled with phantoms. Just 



THE MAGIC CITY 127 

next door is the house from which the spirit of Alfred 
de Musset winged its flight. 

If one is going to look at all the old streets and 
houses, because of their associations, one need not 
be idle in Paris. The city fairly teems with them. 



CHAPTER XIII 

THE PANTHEON. VOLTAIRE's FUNERAL 

Almost any building with a dome is beautiful to 
me, and the Pantheon proved to be no exception, 
although the interior is much smaller than the ex- 
terior would lead one to anticipate. 

This is another place that is filled with those things 
that cannot be seen with the physical eye, — the mem- 
ories of the great souls who have been laid to rest 
in the cavernous vaults of stone beneath the church, 
to be carted away after a time to some other place, 
leaving behind them only a marble tablet to tell the 
terrestrial story, and the impalpable influences that 
fill the place for those who can sense them. 

Mirabeau was the first of the great men to find 
a resting-place here, though only for a short time, 
"being accompanied in great state by four hundred 
thousand people," all howling and wailing at the 
death of so great a man. 

Then Danton was brought, in such a state that his 
face had to be rouged and powdered to hide his de- 
composed features, although his body was allowed 
to remain "covered with blood-stained linen, an arm 
'holding an iron pen' hanging outside the coffin." A 
howling crowd followed, weeping the death of its 

128 



THE MAGIC CITY 129 

"divine hero." He, too, stayed but a short while. 

When I read of the funeral honors of Voltaire, I 
am never quite sure as to whether I ought to laugh 
or to weep with the crowd that accompanied him, — 
there were so many elements of humor that I am 
sure he would have been delighted could he have 
seen them. He, too, was permitted to rest here for 
a while. 

The description runs thus: 

The body of Voltaire, brought to Paris from the Abbey of 
Scellieres, passed the night of nth July, 1791, on the spot where 
the demolished Bastille had stood. 

Next morning, at eight o'clock, a car of monumental proportions 
drawn by twelve horses, moved off for the Pantheon. It was 
surmounted by a sarcophagus of Oriental granite, bearing a figure 
of Voltaire in a half-reclining position as if asleep. He was clad 
in a purple robe, and a young girl was laying a crown of golden 
stars about his brow. 

All Paris lined the streets as the procession went by. The 
route comprised the Boulevards, the Rue Royale, the Plac Louis 
XV., and the Quais, and then up the Rue Saint Jacques. 

The first halt was made in front of the Opera (on the site of 
the present theater of the Porte-Saint-Martin), where hymns were 
chanted; the second, on the Quai des Theatins (now the Quai 
Voltaire), in front of the house of M. de Villette, where the 
great man died. 

There, a band of fifty young girls, wearing classical costumes, 
designed by David, surrounded the funeral car, over which flut- 
tered the torn flag of the Bastille; they were joined presently by 
the widow and daughters of the unhappy Colas and the artists 
of the Comedia Frangais, in theatrical dress. Children walked 
in front of the cortege, strewing roses before the horses' feet. 
It was all admirably arranged, and everything had been provided 
for — except the weather. 

Suddenly a terrible storm broke over Paris. Orosmane made 
haste to shelter Merope and Jocaste beneath an umbrella; Brutus, 
Susignan, Zaire, and Nanine scuttled into a hackney-coach; the 
fifty virgins, bespattered with mud to the waist, tucked their 
peplums under their arms, and tying pocket-handkerchiefs round 
their throats, draggled on through the mud under a perfect deluge 
of rain. The colors began to run, and the figure of the dead 



130 PARIS 

hero to look more and more lamentable every moment; the Ro- 
man Senators' togas hung limp and wretched under the down- 
pour, which obstinately refused to stop. 

It was under these discouraging circumstances that Voltaire, 
i2th July, 1791, entered the Pantheon. 

How different from this was the funeral of Victor 
Hugo, in 1885, when, as T. Okey says: 

The whole population (except the Faubourg Saint Germain and 
the clergy), from the poorest laborer to the heads of the State, 
issued forth to file past the coffin of their daring poet, lifted up 
under the Arch de Triomphe, and by their multitudinous pres- 
ence honored his remains borne on a poor bare hearse to their 
last resting place in the Pantheon. Amid this vast crowd, mainly 
composed of laborers, mechanics, and the petite bourgeoisie, as- 
sembled to do homage to the memory of the poet of democracy, 
scarcely an agent was seen ; the people were their own police, 
and not a rough gesture, not a trace of disorder marred the sub- 
lime scene. 

Others have come, — and gone; Rousseau, Victor 
Hugo, Zola. There were a lot of wreaths made of 
dark-colored beads, and many dried leaves strewn 
about in the vault where Hugo had lain, which, how- 
ever insignificant in themselves, were all signs of the 
honor in which France holds and revers the memory 
of her great ones. 

France, or rather Paris, is so generally spoken of 
as "frivolous," that it is with a keen sense of pleas- 
ure, not unmixed with surprise, that one discovers 
that she is not "frivolous." One has only to witness 
the great honor that is bestowed upon her great men, 
and the beautiful reverence paid to their memories, 
to realize that beneath a smiling, joyous exterior, 
there lies a great love and reverence for the beau- 
ties of character, intellect and achievement, — that 
they know and understand the deep things of life. 



THE MAGIC CITY 131 

One cannot enter and leave the Pantheon without a 
deeper feeling of admiration and appreciation of the 
French people. 

The exterior of the Pantheon is a wonderful vision 
in the moonlight, and I have always been glad that 
I saw it so for the first time. Of all the paintings of 
Saint Genevieve on the interior we can read in the 
guide books. One does not care to think of the saint 
here ; one wishes only to think of the great men who 
have so lately gone away. 



CHAPTER XIV 

CHURCH OF SAINT SEVERIN. SAINT GERVAIS. OTHER 
CHURCHES. THE MADELEINE. THE MARKETS 

One afternoon Madame Frangais herself went 
out with me on an expedition, and a most desirable 
companion she was, as she had never known any 
home other than Paris, of which city she knew every 
stick and stone. 

We went to the church of Saint Severin, "built on 
the site of the oratory of Childebert I, where Saint 
Cloud was shorn and took his vows," — an old, old 
church, hidden in a perfect labyrinth of small, dark, 
odoriferous streets in the Latin Quarter. 

At first sight I liked it; it pleased me. The whole 
front is a perfect embroidery of gargoyles, carvings, 
and statues, topped off by a lovely old tower. Queer 
figures of strange form and shape peep out from 
the most unexpected places. The gargoyles here do 
not have such hideous, leering faces as do those on 
Notre Dame; they suggest rather kobolds, gnomes, 
and such things; the devilish is not so prominently 
suggested. 

The interior of this church is very dark, as the 
tall old houses built so closely around it keep out 
the bright light of day. Through the gloom a num- 

132 



THE MAGIC CITY 133 

ber of candles could be seen glimmering on the high 
altar, and the solemn, restrained light was streaming 
in through the many small windows filled with their 
wonderful, exquisite stained glass of ancient date 
(nearly all of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, I 
believe). In one window is Saint Anthony in most 
gorgeous apparel, with his staff and his bed, his very 
pink feet kept warm by the holy fire; and to make 
it look homelike, near by reclines his faithful friend 
the pig, — a nice, fat, well-fed pig, — all in most beau- 
tifully colored glass. 

It is not a large church; just a gorgeous little gem 
tucked away back in an out-of-the-way corner, filled 
with religious mystery, art treasures, and incense. It 
seemed like a house of worship; it had the right 
atmosphere ; it was a real church. 

We looked at the lovely fifteenth- and sixteenth- 
century chapels, with their twinkling candles; inhaled 
some of the sweet-smelling incense that filled the 
whole atmosphere; Madame said a prayer before 
one of the saints, and then we went on, — to another 
bit of ancient history. 

Only a little distance away is the little church of 
Saint- Julien-le-Pauvre, which was once upon a time 
the chapel of the Hotel Dieu, — one of the oldest hos- 
pitals of Paris. Here, in this church, the university 
held its first sittings. 

It was in a narrow, exceedingly dirty court; and 
when we entered the place we found a queer, little 
old white-haired man, in an embroidered black robe 
and a skull-cap, in charge. No other persons were 



134 PARIS 

there, and we were free to indulge any curiosity that 
we may have had regarding the place. 

It is now used as a Greek Church, and there was 
none of the paraphernalia of the Roman Church in 
evidence. 

This little old man (who was a Syrian) was as 
curious as a sparrow; he cocked his head on one 
side, settled his black cap a little further back on his 
head, and looked us over. The inspection was evi- 
dently satisfactory, for he invited us to come in as 
though he were asking guests into a home of his 
own. He chattered and talked, — seeming glad to 
have visitors, — said he could see plainly that we were 
appreciative and intelligent. Whereupon I nudged 
Madame Frangais. She did not even smile, but gave 
me an extremely amused look, and I could feel my- 
self swelling, puffed up with pride. 

The little church is a humble one, with no claim 
to the artistic; but if one listens closely, in the right 
frame of mind, he might perhaps hear some phantom 
voice whisper: "Dante!" But it is impossible for 
me to think of Dante in Paris; the somber Floren- 
tine must forever remain in those frescoes; why 
should he climb down out of those frescoes of Ghir- 
lahdajo's and come here, to roam these old Latin- 
Quarter streets of Paris. He must stay in Florence. 
We cannot think of him here. However, as each 
place has its gods to whom incense must be burned, 
we must acknowledge the shade of Dante in the 
vicinity of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, and burn our in- 



THE MAGIC CITY 135 

cense. S. S. Beale writes, in her captivating way, of 
this old quarter: 

The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were periods of great 
intellectual activity. Students flocked to Paris from all parts of 
Europe, and the left bank of the Seine became a colony of Col- 
leges. Saint Julien was in the midst of these schools, and in the 
streets surrounding it were dwellings for the students of the va- 
rious nationalities. 

The little Rue du Fouarre takes its name from fouarrage, the 
straw upon which the students sat during the lectures; and so 
large was the attendance in 1535, that the authorities were obliged 
to erect two gates to prevent the circulation of carriages during 
the lessons. 

Bruno Latini, Dante Alighieri, Petrarca, and Rabelais, were 
among the students of the Rue du Fouarre, the three last re- 
ferring to it in their writings. Dante, especially, mentions his 
old master Sigier de Brabant in his "Divina Commedia". . . . 
The poet also bears witness to the violent discussions which took 
place in the street, and adds that he found comfort in going to 
Saint Julien to say his prayers. . . . For several centuries the 
old church was the seat of the general assemblies of the Uni- 
versity; and by a decree of Philippe le Bel, the Provost of Paris 
was obliged to go there every two years to take an oath to observe 
the privileges of the students, who were under his jurisdiction. 
He bore the title of Conservateur de I'Universite with much pride; 
but he must have had a troublous life, for the students were always 
quarreling with the citizens; and in the reign of Charles VI., 
the then Provost, Hugues Aubroit, rebuilt the Petit-Chatelet (which 
was close to St. Julien) in order to defend the City against the 
nocturnal incursions of the scholars. . . . 

Up to the sixteenth century, Saint Julien was also the scene 
of the election of the ;ft.ector of the Faculty of Arts . . ., and 
upon these occasions, notably in 1524, the students seemed to have 
amused themselves, after their kind, by breaking doors and win- 
dows, wrenching knockers, and such like playful imbecilities. . . . 

But Saint Julien was not simply the center of the University; 
it was also the headquarters of many guilds and corporations, 
such as the Confraternity of Notre-Dame-des-Vertus, the Paper- 
makers, the Ironfounders, and Roof-tilers. 

But, what matters it? They have all passed away. 
Nothing remains but the wee chapel and reminis- 
cences. 



136 PARIS 

This little old man said that he himself was a 
Syrian. Whatever he was, his intelligence was of 
no mean order; he knew many things. He showed 
us some church vestments most wonderfully wrought 
in rich embroideries: altar cloths, and the like, and 
he talked of his special form of worship as of some- 
thing that had been given to mortals (that is, certain 
mortals) straight down from Heaven. There was a 
censer hidden away somewhere, which he brought 
out to show to us. If it was genuine, it must have 
been worth many thousands of dollars, — fairly glit- 
tering as it did, with shining jewels, curious carvings, 
and inlaid work. 

For me the place was filled with an unfamiliar 
atmosphere. Each unfamiliar sound made me start 
and turn around, looking for — I scarcely know what : 
some stray spirit, perhaps, that might peep from be- 
hind one of the ancient stone columns. 

Later on, we bade the little Syrian man adieu, 
and left the chapel, with an invitation to return, 
given in the most friendly spirit. 

We then entered our carriage and ended up the 
afternoon by a drive to the Bois and coffee at the 
Restaurant Paillard, — a large, fashionable cafe in 
the beautiful woods. All the "entertainment" was 
there, in beautiful gowns and furbelows, and it 
seemed as though we had made a jump of ages from 
those two old churches across the river; this was the 
Paris of to-day; the other, the Paris of yesterday. 

Each day one gains new knowledge of what Paris 
has been, and with it, a new feeling, a new under- 



THE MAGIC CITY 137 

standing, of what one sees at present. Not to under- 
stand the cause, to some extent at least, would make 
the effect of what one sees In Paris seem rather con- 
fusing; for the old, the past, the historical is all so 
interwoven with the new, the present, the going-to-be 
historical, that cause must be known to appreciate 
and enjoy the effect, — that is, the present, its beauty, 
its gayety and pleasures. To me the pleasures of 
Paris seem to be the intellectual rather than the 
merely frivolous. What intellect! What achieve- 
ment! What evidences of greatness all about! What 
wonderful things have been accomplished in Paris! 
The trend of French intelligence is scientific in the 
widest meaning of the word. Paris is a thinking 
city; her present aspect and condition show it. She 
is not a brooder or a dreamer, — she thinks clearly 
and quickly, and then her thoughts go whizzing 
through the universe. 

Another day, I went to see Saint Gervais, — an- 
other one of the old-world churches that appealed to 
my fancy. It is filled with reminiscences, paintings, 
stained glass, and the dimness and "religious light" 
that one wishes to see in a church. 

All along the sides of this church are little chapels 
filled with frescoes and pictures, wee altars, and 
twinkling candles. Here is a medallion of "God the 
Father" by Perugino, and a great gilded crucifix on 
the high altar that glitters and beckons whenever a 
stray sunbeam falls upon it. The edifice is very dark 
and quiet within, and seems far away from the 



138 PARIS 

double-decked trams and unwieldy omnibuses that go 
scuttling through the busy streets so close by. 

The place is full of shadowy reflections, for this 
is where the wonderful woman, the brilliant letter- 
writer Madame de Sevigne, was married. One in- 
stinctively thinks of her when here. 

Some of the smaller churches, which are in no 
sense of the word, "show" places, please me (indi- 
vidually) more than do some of the great begilded 
and bepainted ones. They have such a "church" air 
about them, that one feels as though he were in a 
place of worship. I do not dislike the great 
churches, — not at all, — ^but I also like these. 

The Church of Saint Eugene is another "churchy" 
church. It is so dark that it is only with difficulty 
that one can see, through the obscurity, the twin- 
kling lights of the high altar. The kneeling figures 
are like so many blobs of shadow on the gray floor. 
The people here kneel at their prayers with such 
seeming abandon and forgetfulness of self. 

One Sunday morning I went to the Church of the 
Madeleine to hear Mass and burn incense to the 
gods, but I could not determine to which ones, — the 
gods of Greece, or the gods of Rome. However, 
once inside, the Greek Temple is lost sight of in the 
paraphernalia of the Roman service, and I joined in, 
with probably several hundred others, and burned 
my incense on the altar of Rome. 

O Antwerp ! There are no stained glass windows 
here through which the sun can send down its long 
red, green, blue, and golden gleams onto the bowed 



THE MAGIC CITY 139 

heads of the worshipers, and the silvery haze of 
incense wends its way in long, quivering slants up to 
the three cupolas in the roof, which furnishes what 
light there is in the templelike Christian church. All 
that I could think of, as I looked through the haze 
at the richly appareled priests, was Chopin, — of 
how he lay here in state, of how the world for the 
first time heard the divine strains of his wonderful 
Funeral March, which was performed at intervals 
at his own funeral solemnities. 

I do not know what Mass was sung that Sunday 
morning, but the miraculous strains filled the sanctu- 
ary — faint and spirltuelle they were at first, then they 
burst into thunderous harmonies, — magnificent and 
awesome. One instinctively fell to his knees. There 
was one exquisite soprano voice that was invariably 
accompanied by the harp, and the excellent intoning 
voice of one priest in particular, as it chanted the 
musical Latin phrases, added immeasurably to the 
beauty of the service. 

If a priest cannot chant in a soft, pliant voice, he 
should not be permitted to say Mass on Sundays. 
A harsh, metalHc voice spoils it all, and destroys 
any sacred Influence that might otherwise be felt. 
So much depends upon a musical intonation. Mass 
is one of the beautiful things of life ; and no harsh 
sounds should ever be allowed to mar its religious 
effect. Ernest Renan, in his "Patrice," says: 

Nothing equals the grandeur of Catholicism when one contem- 
plates it in its mighty proportions, with its mysteries, its cult, its 
sacraments, its mythical history, its patriarchs, its prophets, its 
apostles, its martyrs, its virgins, its saints — immense agglomera- 



140 PARIS 

tion of eighteen centuries, in which nothing is lost, an ever ascend- 
ing mountain, a gigantic temple to which each generation adds a 
story. 

And I might add to this wonderful list, and its 
wonderful masses — its magnificent music. 

The Madeleine is much more beautiful on the 
outside than it is on the inside; although the great 
group, — Mary Magdalen being borne to Paradise 
by two angels, — of snowy marble on the high altar 
is a glorious vision to one who first sees it through 
the veil of incense floating about the choir. 

I had no need to feel ashamed of my own church 
in Paris, and the next Sunday morning, I went there, 
to the Church of the Holy Trinity, in the Avenue de 
I'Alma, — only a short walk from my pension. 

The Gothic church is of beautiful white marble, 
inside as well as outside ; the windows filled with ex- 
quisite stained glass, — new and modern, of course, 
but very beautiful. 

I admit, quite candidly, that I went to see who was 
there, — to see, if by any possible chance there was 
any person present whom I had ever seen before; 
but there was no one, and I felt lonely. They were 
all my countrymen and countrywomen, but I did not 
know them. Always afterwards, I went to the Ro- 
man churches, among the French people, and I was 
never lonely or disappointed, because I did not ex- 
pect anything. But to be in an American audience 
in a strange land, and not know a soul, nor be 
able to speak to any one, — when I wanted to call 
out, "How do you do?" and shake hands and em- 



THE MAGIC CITY 141 

brace everybody there, — that was too much! So, 
I stuck to the strange churches and strange congre- 
gations. 

It is said that the "swells" go to the Sainte Clo- 
tilde. That may, or may not be true, but what I 
went for was not so much to see the "swells" as to 
hear the bells, — ^the beautiful chimes. I would travel 
far to listen to the music of chimes. 

Sainte Clotilde is a large, beautiful, modern 
church, which cost something over a million dollars 
in the building; but the interior impresses one as 
being medieval, — with its carved choir-stalls, its 
high, medieval-looking altar, rich with inlaid work 
and carvings ; its stained-glass windows, its paintings, 
and its chimes. 

I believe that of all the churches in Paris, Saint 
Sulpice appeals to my heart the most. The atmos- 
phere of these churches is sometimes very strongly 
felt, and one finds oneself yielding to all kinds of 
strange fancies that go scuttling through the brain, 
while outwardly listening to the strains of music 
that reverberate and circle round and round the 
sanctuary, and watching the glimmer of the candles 
on the far-away high altar. 

In a small chapel is the Dauphin's little organ, 
which was purchased at the Trianon sale in 1793; 
I only mention the fact, to ask why it should be here? 
Why should it not be in the Louvre, instead of in 
a church? To be sure, the church authorities bought 
it; but I should think it would look better in a mu- 
seum. 



142 PARIS 

The church, — in the form of a Greek Cross 460 
feet in length, — is filled with the beautiful things of 
the ecclesiastical world, each of its twenty side- 
chapels being a little gem of gorgeous frescoes, paint- 
ings, and marbles. In one chapel is a beautiful 
image of the Virgin Mary, which conveys the im- 
pression that she is standing in the clouds, the light 
falling down upon it from somewhere in the ceiling. 
Theatrical perhaps, but very beautiful! 

In another chapel is one of the things that I de- 
test: the Martyrdom of Saint John the Evangelist. 
Bah! 

The music for the services is created by a mas- 
terly hand. But whose? I do not know. I only 
know that it is of the kind that will cause a person 
to go back time after time, just to hear it. There is 
no more devotional expression of the soul than 
music. 

During the sermon one Sunday, the devotional 
was almost lost sight of, in the desire to laugh. The 
preacher twiddled his thumbs, kept chasing one after 
the other all the time, stopping only long enough, 
at regular intervals, to point a fat, pudgy finger 
at the congregation, as he emphasized some point 
in his discourse, and then resumed the twiddhng. 

One afternoon Madame Frangais and I went to 
visit the church of Saint Etienne-du-Mont, where I 
again had an opportunity to luxuriate in the glories 
of stained glass, offer incense to the tomb of Saint 
Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, and call to 
mind those great men, — Racine and Pascal, — who 



THE MAGIC CITY 143 

found their last resting-place here, under the pro- 
tection of the saint. 

The stained glass of this church is gorgeous, but 
one must not examine one window too closely if 
he does not care for the disgustingly grewsome. It 
is an illustration of the allegory of the wine-press. 

Our Lord lies upon the press in the presence of the Father 
and the Holy Spirit, bathed in a" sea of blood, which flows from 
His sides, His hands, His feet. Underneath, the blood pours down 
through an opening into a large cask. Prelates and Kings carry 
to a cellar those barrels which have been filled with the Sacred 
Blood by the Doctors of the Church; while, from under a rich, 
classic portico, we see the faithful flocking to confess their sins, 
and to receive the Holy Eucharist. In the distance, the Patriarchs 
are digging the ground and pruning the vines, while the Apostles 
gather in the vintage. St. Peter throws the grapes into a vat, 
and a chariot drawn by the Ox, the Lion, and the Eagle of the 
Apocalypse, and guided by the Angel of S. Matthew, carries 
the Divine vintage to the four quarters of the earth. Such is 
the allegory of the wine-press, the Pressoir mystique, the out- 
come of the verse of Isaiah: "I have trodden the wine-press alone, 
and of the people there was none with me" ; but, unfortunately 
for the correctness of the illustration, there is, in this window, a 
large concourse of people, great and small in worldly means and 
wisdom. 

If one can forget the subject, pleasure in the con- 
templation of this wonderful window is unlimited. 
I do not like these dreadful subjects; but they must 
give joy to the true believer. 

The shrine of the saint is well worth seeing. It 
is made of gold and silver, all studded with precious 
stones set in wonderful designs, and carved with 
statues of the saint herself, the Virgin Mary, and 
the twelve Apostles. Inside, there is supposed to 
be preserved a portion of the old wooden shrine in 
which the relics of the saint were first kept, as well 



144 PARIS 

as the relics themselves, which, I may say, are not 
exhibited to the public, so we accept them on faith. 
Candles were burning all around the shrine, and 
kneeling people, — ^troubled souls, — surrounded it on 
every side. Votive offerings, in gratitude for won- 
derful cures, and so on, were hung upon the walls 
in great profusion. I cannot understand why votive 
offerings should so often take the form of little silver 
hearts. 

We all generally close one eye when listening to 
the tales and legends of saints, but very clever peo- 
ple tell strange stories sometimes. Why should 
plagues and pestilences cease, and all manner of 
threatened evil be averted, — even the waters of the 
Seine subsiding during a threatened flood, — simply by 
the carrying of this shrine in a solemn procession 
through the streets? I never saw any of these things 
done, but if we accept historical accounts for one 
thing, why not for the other? 

Believe! Believe! Never raise uncomfortable 
suggestions or questionings, — that spoils everything. 
One cannot enjoy these things when all the time he 
is doubting. Always believe it is all true. After all, 
nothing is too wonderful to be true. Believe what 
you like, — ^when you get home. 

La Trinite is a great modern church, with a some- 
what ancient appearance, that appeals to one more 
because it was from here that Rossini was carried to 
his long rest in Pere la Chaise before being sent on 
to Florence, than because of anything else, perhaps.,. 
In his "Paris Churches," Mr. Lonergan says: 



THE MAGIC CITY 145 

Nilsson was there, and the duet between Alboni and Patti, the 
Quis est Homo, from Rossini's own "Stabat Mater," set strong 
men, as well as sentimental women, weeping until their eyes were 
red. Rossini's coffin was covered with Parma violets, his favorite 
flowers, and with ivy. 

Having always heard of the wonderful vision 
which Saint Eustache presents at evening, when the 
altar is all aglow with twinkling candles, the atmos- 
phere sweet with smoking incense, the floor dotted 
with kneeling figures at their devotions in the twi- 
light, I waited to make my first visit at such a time. 

One evening, when we were to take dinner at an 
old cafe of note in the vicinity, we whetted our 
appetites by attending vespers at this wonderfully 
beautiful old church. 

The sanctuary fairly blazed with gleaming lights; 
but even so, the far-away ceiling faded away into 
misty darkness; there was that strange reverbera- 
tion caused by the shifting of numbers of prayer- 
chairs backwards and forwards; the strange and un- 
expected sounds that always come from a vast con- 
gregation of people (a cough here, a sigh there; 
the clicking of beads; and over all, the sound of the 
organ away off through the clouds of hazy incense, 
and the low, subdued tones of the richly appareled 
priest. S. S. Beale says of Saint Eustache : 

On entering the church, the effect is most impressive, and upon 
any great festival, or during the evening services of the Adora- 
tion Perpetuelle, when the whole east end is a-blaze with candles, 
few churches can compare with it in grandeur. Saint Eustache, 
like most large churches, looks grandest in the evening, when the 
altar is a-blaze with lights, and long vistas fade away into the 
darkness; but under all conditions it is a splendid church, a mass 
of harmonious coloring from floor to ceiling. 



146 PARIS 

Flying buttresses support the nave, choir, and transepts; and a 
multitude of gargoyles, fantastic in design, representing men, 
women and children, with foliage terminations, and mostly winged, 
surround the pilasters of the aisles. 

Again I went, in the morning, to an early Mass. 
I wanted to hear the music, which is always splendid, 
and to see the market-women at their devotions. 
The great market, the Halles Centrales, is within 
a stone's throw of the church, and it is difficult for 
me to think of one and not of the other — the mind 
constantly reverts to the ancestors of these market 
women, kneeling there, busy with their beads and 
prayers, — to those fearsome women, who with their 
knitting in hand, sat counting the heads of the hated 
aristocrats as they fell into the waiting basket from 
the guillotine. The market-woman of to-day is a 
nice, round-faced, rolypoly bit of humanity; but 
looking around at the beautiful windows, frescoes 
and paintings of Saint Eustache, even while listening 
to the wonderful strains coming from the magnifi- 
cent organ, the mind constantly wanders away to 
the "knitting women," the ancestors perhaps of the 
market-women. 

How some of these churches take hold of the affec- 
tions ! No wonder men have gone smilingly to death 
in most cruel forms for love of church ! It is not 
so much what is in a church, it is not perhaps the 
jewel-like windows, it is not the marbles nor the 
paintings ; it is some indefinable something, some in- 
fluence perhaps, — something that eludes analysis, — 
that encroaches upon the affections, and leads men 
into all kinds of strange adventures because of it. 



THE MAGIC CITY 147 

One loves some of them at once, or the reverse. I 
went at divers times to these churches that attracted 
me, and the influence was always the same; just as 
my dislike of Notre Dame was always felt. 

To go from Saint Eustache to the market is only 
a moment's travel. After listening to the most ex- 
quisite music of the ecclesiastical world, in the quiet 
of the vast sanctuary, it gives one quite a startling 
sensation to enter into the commotion of the Halles 
Centrales. 

We have markets in America, yes ! But really, 
this great Paris market is not to be laughed at, — 
not by any means ! Even we have to admit that it 
is a large one ; it covers something over twenty acres, 
divided into ten sections, each section containing over 
two hundred and fifty stalls. The whole is inter- 
sected by roofed-over streets, leading from one divi- 
sion to another, and it cost Paris something like two 
million and a half dollars to build. 

There the market-people stand, offering their 
wares, talking back and forth to one another from 
stall to stall, and eating and drinking. Personally, 
I saw nothing whatever of what I am about to re- 
late, but when I think of the ^'garbage man," and 
the barrels and barrels of food cast away from our 
great restaurants, hotels, and cafes, and of how much 
good might be done with it, the French way of dis- 
posing of such refuse seems especially to recom- 
mend itself. Nothing is ever wasted in France, and 
the refuse from the large hotels and restaurants, 
banquets, and similar places, instead of being thrown 



148 PARIS 

away, is rearranged and tastefully redressed in 
small "portions" called "jewelry," taken to the mar- 
kets, and sold for a penny or two. Mr. George 
Augustus Sala speaks especially of this custom, and 
says, in his intensely interesting way: 

"Here is the 'jewelry' at last! We pass between 
a double line of stalls heaped high with the most 
astonishing array of cooked food that I have ever 
set eyes upon. Fish, flesh, fowl, vegetables, fruit, 
pastry, confectionery and cheese are all represented 
here, ready cooked, but cold, and arranged, not on 
plates or dishes, but on quarter-sheets of old news- 
papers. I imagine one pile, consisting of the leg of 
a partridge, the remnants of an omelette, the tail 
of a fried sole, two ribs of a jugged hare, a spoonful 
of haricot beans, a scrap of filet, a cut pear, a hand- 
ful of salad, a slice of tomato, and a dab of jelly. 
It is the microcosm of a good dinner, abating the 
soup. The pile constitutes a portion, and is to be 
bought for five sous, or twopence-halfpenny. 

"There are portions as low as two sous; indeed, 
the scale of prices is most elastic in ascending and 
descending. There are piles here to suit all pockets. 

"Are your funds at very low ebb, indeed? On 
that scrap of a back number of the Figaro^ you will 
find a hard-boiled egg, the gizzard of a fowl, two 
pickled gherkins, and a macaroon. A breakfast 
for a prince, if his Highness be impecunious. 

"Are you somewhat in cash? Behold outspread 
on a trenchant leading article from the Republique 
Frangaise, a whole veal chop, a golden store of cold 



THE MAGIC CITY 149 

fried potatoes, an artichoke a la barlgoule, a sump- 
tuous piece of Roquefort, some barbe de Capucin 
salad, and the remains of a Charlotte Russe. A 
luncheon for a king, if his Majesty's civil list be a 
restricted one. But there are loftier luxuries to be 
had. 

"Behold an entire fowl! See at least the moiety 
of a Chateaubriand aux Champignons. Yonder are 
the magnificent relics of a demieselle de pre sale, 
the remains of a sole a la Normandie, the ruins of a 
buisson d'ecrevisses, half a dozen smelts, the back- 
bone of a pheasant, and, upon my word, some truffles; 
yes, positively, truffles! It is true that they are 
mingled with bits of cheese and beet root, with a dash 
of meringue a la creme, and a suspicion of Sauce 
Robert. All this is gathered together on a front 
page of the Pays. A dinner for an emperor, when 
imperialism is at a discount, and Caesar does not 
find it convenient to dine at the Cafe Riche or the 
Maison Doree. 

"The fragments which form the 'jewelry' of the 
Halles Centrales are brought down in big baskets, 
between seven and eight, every morning, by the 
garcons of the great boulevard restaurants, or by 
the larbins from the hotels of the ministers and the 
foreign ambassadors. If there has been overnight 
a dinner at the Ministry of the Interior, or at the 
Baratarian Embassy, the show of 'jewelry' in the 
morning will be superb. Whole turkeys and ca- 
pons, all but the entire hams and hures de sanglier 
scarcely impinged upon, pieces montees, the majestic 



ISO PARIS 

vestiges of a poulet a la Marengo or a saumon a la 
Chambord, will decorate the deal boards of the stalls 
in the Halles. Out of the fashionable season, the 
supply comes principally from the leading restau- 
rants, where the 'leavings' are the perquisites of the 
gargons." 

By this arrangement, very poor people can have 
a king's dinner for a very few pennies, and nothing 
is wasted, but all things used for a good purpose. 

The Halles Centrales, too, are interesting from 
other points of view, and because of other associa- 
tions. 

The Halles Centrales and their quarters have al- 
ways been the center of populace in Paris; they 
still remain the place where, in spite of modern sur- 
roundings, new straight streets and vast roofs of 
iron and glass, you can most usually find the types 
that make up the lower tradition of the capitol. 
There the random sellers of ballads, the street art- 
ists, the homeless singers gather at night. 



CHAPTER XV 

A MUSICALE. FRENCH FRIENDLINESS. ANECDOTES 

One evening a young woman whose family lived 
in an apartment on the Rue de Longchamps, not far 
from us, invited a number of the ladies in the pension 
to come over to her house to hear some music, and 
added an invitation for "that American girl who is 
staying over there," — so, I went too. 

This family was Irish, but had lived the greater 
part of their life in France. There was the father 
and mother, a brother and a sister. Both brother 
and sister were art students, and, in addition, the 
sister was an excellent musician. 

There was a fairly large salon, with an immense 
window of stained glass on one side. In that corner 
was a concert grand piano; pictures and sketches 
lined the walls; bits of carved ivory and nicknacks 
were strewn about. In another part of the room 
was the Irish emblem, — a harp. Altogether it was 
a charming room, full of rest suggestions. I liked 
its begilded ceiling, its picture-lined walls, its pieces 
of rare furniture, and its great, black, open piano. 
I felt the atmosphere of the home at once upon en- 
tering its salon. 

All this fine, old-world furniture seems to have an 
151 



152 



PARIS 



influence of its own: it puts the mind into a state of 
tranquillity, consequently the body falls into a state 
of rest and ease. 

Introductions over, we all began at once to con- 
verse, and I was delighted to find out how well Amer- 
icans are liked in Paris; every one fairly beamed with 
cordiality. 

The room was fitted up with all the paraphernalia 
of electric lighting, but not one was burning: all the 
illumination came from numbers of wax candles 
distributed in various nooks and corners of the room, 
— ^two burning in little brackets attached at each 
side of the music rack of the piano. 

I asked Miss Ahnrate (the sister) : 

"Why candles instead of the electric light?" 

"Fancy trying to woo the goddess in anything but 
candlelight !" was her answer. 

No matter, the effect was charming; and I sin- 
cerely enjoyed all the evening brought to me, for, 
among other things, it brought to me a friendship 
with these clever people that has never been broken. 

Then some wonderful man, in plain evening dress, 
— with a clean, smoothly-shaven face and coal-black 
hair, made music for us. No one spoke a word. His 
music enveloped us in a strange repose — in that pe- 
culiar condition of mind that takes possession of one 
when listening to certain sounds, that is too vague 
and elusive for any attempt at analysis; but perhaps 
we all know what it is. 

What strange visions one may sometimes see un- 
der the influence of certain music! As I sat there, 



THE MAGIC CITY 153 

in the soft dim light of the candles, trying to listen 
to what the "master" was saying, I could catch 
glimpses of tall, Dante-like figures, — somber, stately, 
— coming out of some dark, somber, green space, 
remote and blurred by indistinct cypress trees. I 
could see the luminous haze of moonlight cast over 
some far-away landscape, the location of which I did 
not know; I could see shimmering waters; hear 
strange sounds of a night in some land I have never 
seen. With the change of harmony came a change 
of vision. I am always sorry when these friendly 
dream-people leave me, because I cannot call them 
back (they come only when I hear the same music 
again) ; but I see them so plainly that I believe I 
should know them were I to meet them in real life, 
and that I should recognize those strange, beautiful 
landscapes should I happen to see them. 

Many such evenings followed. However, I found 
out that music does not make its appeal to every one 
as it does to me. I had always imagined that any 
one who could paint pictures would love music, and 
every other manifestation of art, but this, evidently, 
is not true. Mrs. Harmon could not endure the 
sound of a piano, and would grow nervous and fidg- 
ety before a performer could finish a single num- 
ber, saying it made her ill. And she would then go 
home, or into some other room, away from the sound 
of the music. 

Not long after that bit of knowledge had drifted 
to me I became acquainted with an artist from Hol- 
land, who painted almost exclusively scenes from 



154 PARIS 

his own land, and he told me that he never read a 
book of any description, — never even looked between 
the covers of one; that he detested books, and had 
never read any since he left school. How can it be 
possible? Yet he assured me it was quite true. He 
was a man of refinement and apparent culture. I 
should think — well, no matter what one thinks; 
it seems to me an abnormal condition. 

I do not know how people used to comport them- 
selves in the drawing-rooms of the long ago, but in 
reading a piece of advice given by a French gentle- 
man of great culture, to his nephew, and recalling all 
the magnificent accounts of "salons" that I have read, 
I am rather curious. This cultured Frenchman 
says : 

Behave yourself well and correctly, even when you are bored. 
Do not frown, that is impolite. Do not smile to yourself, that 
gives an air of self-sufficiency. Do not move the muscles of 
your face, else you will seem to be talking to yourself. Do not 
stretch yourself at length in arm-chairs, these are the manners 
of the tap-house. Do not lean too far forwards, or you will 
seem to be contemplating your boots. Let your body make an 
angle of forty-five degrees with your limbs. Assume the vacant 
and composed expression of a prince at a ceremony. You may, 
if you like, turn over the leaves of a photographic album. . . . 
When you put on a white cravat, do not swear at the stupidity 
of the custom. A drawing-room is a permanent exhibition ; you 
are a commodity and commodities are not disposed of unless 
properly exhibited. . . . The only trouble in this is its hypocrisy. 
You are all dogs, each running after his bone; dinner is neces- 
sary, — that I agree to; but for God's sake! do not say that you 
despise the bone, and, if possible, do not smack your chops so 
often ! 

May the saints defend us! And it was a French- 
man who said it! 

Speaking of the French liking Americans. I have 



THE MAGIC CITY 155 

discovered one curious thing, and that is, that nearly 
all of the criticism leveled at Americans (and Eng- 
lish, too) in Paris, has been written by Americans 
and English. Why? I cannot imagine. A French- 
man seldom criticizes the Americans and the English 
in his books. Our own people are the ones who do 
the laughing at us. But again, I wonder why? If 
a young American goes to Paris to study painting 
or music for a couple of years, he seems to think 
that by that act he has become a Frenchman, and 
is in a position to laugh at the rest of his countrymen 
who come to Paris, and may not understand some 
things about the city. I have heard of several in- 
stances where our own people laughed at us because 
we did not happen to know that the Palais Royal was 
no longer the "center of fashion." No matter, — 
we want to see it anyway. Why not? It is histori- 
cal,- — filled with reminiscences, — we want to see it. 

Another writer laughs at some young girls who 
have come to Paris to study painting, because he 
overheard them say, in a plain little restaurant where 
there was nothing in particular exciting, "How Bo- 
hemian!" Well, why not? It is a credit to those 
little American girls that they did find It "Bohe- 
mian,"— it speaks well for their home training. 

They will lose their Illusions soon enough, but 

Well, the French do not laugh at us. All kinds of 
things, amusing and otherwise, are liable to happen 
to people in our own country, among familiar sur- 
roundings and where they understand the language 
spoken, so, why not in Paris? 



156 PARIS 

Mr. John L. Stoddard tells of an amusing incident 
in Paris, but which might happen elsewhere as well : 

In Paris, when the seats are occupied [referring to the omni- 
buses], the little sign "Complet" [which means filled] inexorably 
keeps out all intruders. This leads sometimes to strange mis- 
takes on the part of tourists, one of whom is said to have declared: 
"I have visited every place in Paris except Complet; but when- 
ever I have seen an omnibus beariijg that name it would not stop 
for me!" 

Well, that is nothing! 

One day, while I was stopping at the Grand Hotel, 
a young woman called out, clear across the table, to 
some persons with whom she was acquainted, and 
asked, in a loud tone, what all those little "Bhyrrs" 
were all over the town. There was a silence, — then 
every one grinned. Really! How should she know? 
They were the public conveniences that spoil every 
Boulevard in the city, and this foolish little sign of 
something or other, was painted in red and yellow 
letters over the tops of every blessed one of them. 
She thought that was the name of the place, what- 
ever it was. Of course, these things are always 
funny, — to the other party. In spite of my sym- 
pathy, I, too, laughed, — we all laughed. Who could 
help it? 



CHAPTER XVI 

CAFE-CONCERTS. CAB HORSES. PARIS CROWDS 

One evening Monsieur Frangais invited me to 
accompany himself and wife to a cafe known as the 
Cafe Rouge. It was the first time I had had an 
opportunity to go out at night since the departure 
of the Whatleys, and I was delighted. 

This cafe was fitted up with mirrors on the walls, 
and red velvet chairs. On the backs of the chairs 
were little brackets upon which to stand cups and 
glasses, for every one who enters must buy some re- 
freshment: that is the rule of this cafe. There were 
no tables. 

I understand that none except high-class music is 
ever performed here. Certain it was, that a magnifi- 
cent program was rendered that evening. The men 
smoked, drank their coffee, beer, or wine ; the women 
generally drank coffee or wine, and no one spoke a 
word. Except for the music, I believe you could 
have heard a pin drop. Evidently the patrons were 
all music lovers. 

These cafe-concerts are very popular with the 
French people, and nightly the crowds congregate 
to hear good music, which is offered to them for the 
price of a cup of coffee. 



158 PARIS 

After we left the cafe, — ^at one in the morning, — 
we walked for a long distance before we finally took 
a carriage for home. 

It was all serene, with the peace of the quiet night- 
time. The streets were very dark. The houses 
loomed up through the blackness like huge specters. 

Not to see a city by night is, to my mind, a great 
loss. The night silence of a great city's streets, of 
its tall, shadowy houses lined up in long, somber 
rows, the mysterious shadows cast by Heaven knows 
what; the strange, unfamiliar sounds; the soft, dense 
shadows of waving, rustling foliage overhead; the 
terrifying ghostly outlines of flying automobiles, — 
their great spectral, fiery eyes glaring down through 
the black caverns of streets, or staring at one through 
the dark penumbra of the long lines of trees; the 
sudden blare of horns that makes one jump and 
start; the blurred figures scurrying along the side- 
walks on the other side of the street, — all lend some 
indefinable something to the dim night walk that 
is never to be seen or felt in a daylight ramble 
through the same thoroughfares. It creates a subtle, 
and at the same time, a powerful impression. One 
can feel the night, the mystery of it. When one 
searches for all these things in the daytime, — 
presto! they are gone! 

It looked as though all the buildings, the domes, 
the spires, and the towers that create the wonderful 
sky-line of Paris had been removed; not an outHne 
could be seen through the impenetrable blackness, — 
only dim blotches. 



THE MAGIC CITY 159 

The "silvery shimmer" of the moonlit river was 
gone, — It was black as the night Itself, and the lights 
from numbers of barges and boats, from the lamps 
along the banks, and from the lights flung over the 
bridges, only Intensified Its wrinkled blackness. 

A cab with a blue light came along. The driver 
cracked his whip in an insinuating way, and Mon- 
sieur Frangais called out something, — I did not un- 
derstand what It was, — and In we got. 

In Paris only carriages with lights of a certain 
color go to certain localities. If one cannot find his 
own particular "light," it is optional with the driver 
whether he takes you home or not. If he does con- 
descend to do so, rest assured the tip will be large 
enough. And who could blame them? So, I pre- 
sume we were fortunate enough to have happened 
upon our own color. 

However, we soon reached the brilliantly-lighted 
Champs Elysees. The beautiful roadway was cov- 
ered with silvery splotches of light between the elon- 
gated shadows of the trees, which showed green as 
emerald through the shining electric lights behind 
them. 

These Parisians must go to bed early, for there 
was scarcely a light burning In a private house from 
the Palais de I'Elysee to the Arc de Triomphe, — all 
was In darkness except the still, brilllantly-Hghted 
cafes-chantants, which lay back behind the trees In 
the intermittent flare and shadow. 

The poor cab horses! So much has been said of 
the cab horses of Paris that it sounds banal to men- 



i6o PARIS 

tion them; but, truly, they do have a style of archi- 
tecture all their own, — peculiarly their own, I am in- 
clined to think, for I have never seen any equal to it, 
anywhere: razor backs, extraordinarily long ears, 
strangely constructed knees, and uncertain age. 
Some of them are, perhaps, Rubenses or Rem- 
brandts, — or some of the other Old Masters ! 

It might not be kind for a mere observer to say 
that drivers were unkind to their poor, four-legged 
co-workers, but I hope that the horses understand 
and take it all in good part. Perhaps they do, as 
they speak French and seem to understand every 
word of the choice invectives showered upon them 
in such unlimited vocabularies. 

To stand at night in the shadow of the Arc de 
Triomphe and look down the Champs Elysees, and 
the ten or twelve other streets and avenues that ra- 
diate from this point, is to experience an Arabian 
Nights' vision. The dozen "Great White Ways" 
are so many streams of light flowing to so many 
points of the universe. It makes one contemplative. 

On several occasions Miss Ahnrate and I took a 
carriage, and rode down the Rue de Rivoli in the 
evening, just to see the beauty of the streets at night. 
For miles this street is lighted so that it is almost as 
light as day; and on the Boulevards, there is a per- 
fect blaze of colored lights as well as of white lights, 
shining through the foliage of the long lines of green 
trees, — a very unusual sight, as large cities so seldom 
allow trees to grow in their busy thoroughfares. It 
only proves that it can be don^. 



THE MAGIC CITY i6i 

A ride on the top of a double-decked 'bus from 
the Madeleine to the Place de la Bastille in the eve- 
ning, when all the city is ablaze with light, is one 
of the most interesting and diverting rides to be 
found in the whole world, I believe; and so Miss 
Ahnrate and I found the top seat of an omnibus pref- 
cerable to a carriage for that purpose. 

One evening we took the mother of Madame 
T'rangais with us, and she climbed up to the top of 
the 'bus with the agihty of a girl in her 'teens (she 
must have been sixty, at the least) . The dear little 
old lady ! She knew Paris like a book, and pointed 
out this and that place, with always something to 
tell of every one of them. According to her ac- 
counts, there are ghosts and spooks all over Paris. 

It is one thing to see all these things, but it is quite 
another matter to describe them, but De Amicis has 
succeeded to a wonderful extent. He says: 

The boulevards are blazing. The shops cast floods of brilliant 
light half way across the streets, and encircle the crowds in a 
golden haze. The illuminated kiosques, extending in two inter- 
minable rows, resembling enormous Chinese lanterns, give to 
the street the fantastic and childlike aspect of an Oriental fete. 
The numberless reflections, the thousands of luminous points shin- 
ing through the trees, the rapid motion of the innumerable car- 
riage lights that seem like myriads of fire-flies, the purple lamps 
(of the omnibuses, the hundred thousand illuminated windows, all 
these theatrical splendors half conceal the verdure which now 
and then allows a glimpse of the distant illuminations, and pre- 
rsents the spectacle in progressive scenes. 

All this produces at first an indescribable implression on the 
stranger. It seems like an immense display of fire-works, which 
suddenly extinguished will leave the city buried in smoke. 

This was all true, and more ; but while exceedingly 
beautiful, would not be apt to impress an American 



1 62 PARIS 

(who is used to brilliant street illuminations) as it 
would the beautiful-souled Italian. 

Many times we would spend our evenings just 
riding about, through the bright streets, watching 
the crowds at the cafes, or filing theaterward, and 
enjoying the huge spectacle. 

The thing that impresses me most is the absence 
of hurry and rush. These people are orderly and 
methodic ; they move along to whatever their desti- 
nation may be, in a leisurely manner, without any 
agonizing rush or undue haste, which is very satisfy- 
ing to the observer; 

I should admire the French (if for no other rea- 
son) because of the tender manner in which they 
treat their old people. Any old person in the house 
is treated almost as a goddess of the household. Our 
little old lady was the real goddess of the family 
with whom I was staying. They deferred to 
"Maman" in everything, — or what she wanted to 
do, or have done. I have seen picnickers,- — parties 
out in the country for an outing (parties, here, par- 
ties there, in the Bois, everywhere), and almost in- 
variably, there was an old lady in the party, every 
one present giving her the greater share of attention. 



CHAPTER XVII 

THE TOMB OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF 

One afternoon Miss Ahnrate and I started out 
for a little prowl about the neighborhood, my mind 
busy with what I saw; hers, busy with Home Rule 
for Ireland, as her intermittent conversation indi- 
cated. 

While wandering about the Trocadero, I sud- 
denly espied a small cemetery, and suggested at once 
that we go in and call upon this silent company, in 
this silent city. Reading tombstones may not be a 
hilarious form of amusement, but it is one replete 
with melancholy interest to those who find pleasure 
in looking upon these last resting-places of the great 
sons of men. And of them there are a goodly com- 
pany in Paris. 

This was Passy. We went in, at a modest little 
gateway, and were quietly talking as we walked along 
the neat paths, looking at this monument or that one, 
when I saw at a short distance, behind some tall 
trees, a snowy-white mausoleum much resembling a 
mosque,- — something that looked Mohammedan, or 
Russian,— and we started at once for it. Upon 
reaching it, we found it to be the tomb of poor httle 
Marie Bashkirtseff! I had supposed that she was 
buried somewhere in Russia. 

i§3 



1 64 PARIS 

As I stood peering in through the glass doors, I 
suddenly heard the dull throbbing of funeral music, 
and for an instant could not decide whether I was 
''hearing things" or whether I really had heard 
music. I turned quickly around, looking for I 
scarcely knew what, and Miss Ahnrate was standing 
there, at the edge of the walk, looking down the 
narrow roadway. A funeral was coming in through 
the entrance. A black funeral car, with no glass at 
the sides, bore the casket that lay on a sort of pyr- 
amid in the open space, almost completely covered 
with flowers. Men, dressed in black "dress suits" 
and tall silk hats, walked at the sides and formed 
a procession in the rear, their white-gloved hands 
hanging at their sides. A band of music marched 
in front, all their instruments muffled. 

I only stood long enough to catch a glimpse of 
the little procession, then fled behind the tomb of 
Marie, so that I could howl and wail without being 
seen. No matter who it is, I am always chief 
mourner. I have no need to know the one in a 
casket, — I howl anyway. And funeral music in ad- 
dition ! No, I could not bear that. 

Soon the somber procession, with its mufiled music, 
passed by to another part of the cemetery, and I 
came out from my retreat. 

We peered in through the glass doors of Marie's 
tomb at the white marble bust of the beautiful young 
girl, which was standing on a pedestal over in one 
corner, the eyes bent in a pensive look down upon 
the spot where all that remained of her beautiful 



THE MAGIC CITY 165 

body was reposing in its long sleep. The body was 
not put into the ground, but is lying in its casket in 
a marble-lined bed in the middle of the tomb, a slab 
of marble covering the opening, which can be raised 
at any moment. 

A little altar is built at one end of the tomb, which 
has upon it a cross and some flowers. Stretched 
across one wall, is a large unfinished picture, which 
I think is of her Holy Women about which she 
talked so much. It was merely a sketch, the outlines 
very dini. Lying there, also, was the manuscript copy 
of her ''Journal." At one side stood a chair. It all 
appealed to me as pathetic, considering the many 
plans she had formed and was so intent upon accom- 
plishing, when death stopped it all. 

A few days before her death, she wrote in her 
''Journal" : 

I have not been able to go out for the past few days. I am 
very ill, although I am not confined to bed. . . . Ah, my God ! 
and my picture, my picture, my picture ! . . . I have a constant 
fever that is sapping my strength. I spend the whole day in the 
drawing-room, going from the easy-chair to the sofa, and back 
again, I cannot leave the house at all, but poor Bastien-Lepage 
is still able to go out, so he had himself brought here and in- 
stalled in an easy-chair, his feet supported by cushions. I was 
by his side, in another easy-chair, and so we remained until six 
o'clock. 

I was dressed in a white plush morning-gown trimmed with 
white lace, but of a different shade. . . . "Ah, if I could only 
paint!" he said. And I! . . . There is an end to this year's 
picture. 

I 

And now, here she lies! The last entry she ever 
made in her "Journal," was written just eleven days 
before she died, — Monday, October 20, 1884: 



1 66 PARIS 

Although the weather is magnificent, Bastien-Lepage Comes hete 
instead of going to the Bois. He can scarcely walk at all now; 
his brother supports him under each arm; he almost carries him. 
By the time he is seated in his easy-chair, the poor fellow is 
exhausted. Woe is me ! And how many porters there are who 
do not know what it is to be ill ! Emile is an admirable brother. 
He it is who carries Jules on his shoulders up and down their 
three flights of stairs. Dina [a cousin] is equally devoted to 
me. For the last two days my bed has been in the drawing-room, 
but as this is very large, and divided by screens, poufs, and the 
piano, it is not noticed. I find it too difficult to go upstairs. 

And she died eleven days later, just twenty-four 
years of age. Who would not stop long enough to 
whisper one little prayer? 

The following was written by Frangois Coppee, 
and was "printed in the 'Catalogue of Marie Bash- 
klrtseff's Paintings' exhibited in Paris in 1885, shortly 
after her death" : 

At this moment Mile. Bashkirtseff appeared. I saw her but 
once. I saw her only for an hour. I shall never forget her. 
Twenty-three years old, but she appeared much younger. Rather 
short, but with a perfect figure, an oval face exquisitely modeled, 
golden hair, dark eyes kindling with intelligence — eyes consumed 
by the desire to see and to know everything — a firm mouth, 
tender and thoughtful, nostrils quivering like those of a wild 
horse of the Ukraine. 

At the first glance, Mile. Bashkirtseff gave me the rare im- 
pression of being possessed by strength in gentleness, dignity in 
grace. Everything in this adorable young girl betrayed a superior 
mind. . . . 

She replied to my congratulations [about the acceptance of her 
picture by the Salon] in a frank and well-modulated voice — 
without false modesty acknowledging her high ambitions, and — 
poor child! Already with the finger of death upon her. . . . 

It was time for me to leave, and moreover for a moment I 
experienced a vague apprehension, a sort of alarm — I can scarcely 
call it a presentiment. 

Before that pale and ardent young girl I thought of some 
extraordinary hothouse plant, beautiful and fragrant beyond 
words, and in my heart of hearts, a sweet voice murmured, "It 
is too much!" 



THE MAGIC CITY 167 

Alas! It was indeed too much! A few months after my one 
visit to the Rue Ampere, I received the sinister notice bordered 
with black, informing me that Mile. Bashkirtseff was no more. 
She had died . . . having taken a cold while making a sketch 
in the open air. 

Once again I visited the desolate house. The stricken mother, 
a prey to a devouring and arid grief, unable to shed tears, 
showed me, for the second time, in their old places, the pictures 
and books. She spoke to me for a long time of her poor dead 
child, revealing the tenderness of her heart, which her intellect 
had not extinguished. She led me, convulsed by sobs, even to 
the bed-chamber, before the little iron bedstead, the bed of a 
soldier, upon which the heroic child had fallen asleep forever. . . . 

But why try to influence the public? In the presence of the 
works of Marie Bashkirtseff, before that harvest of hopes, wilted 
by the breath of death, every one would surely experience, with 
an emotion deep as my own, the same profound melancholy as 
would be inspired by edifices crumbling before their completion. 

Yes, there she was! And she must have been as 
lovely as the word-picture of Coppee, if that marble 
in the comer resembles her. 

But she is not, as I have heard said, forgotten. 
The art students at the house tell me that almost the 
first thing a new student does after securing lodg- 
ings, is to buy a copy of her "Journal," — ^that it 
has practically become a sort of text-book to every 
student in Paris, — certainly to those in the Julien 
Studios. It is filled with the criticisms and instruc- 
tions of the great Julien himself, as well as those of 
Tony Robert- Fluery, and Jules Bastien-Lepage; suf- 
ficient, I should think, to make a good text-book for 
any student. 

In her "Journal," Tuesday, August 21, 1883, she 
says: 

And my will? All I shall ask in it will be a statue and a 
picture, the one by Saint-Marceaux, the other by Jules Bastien- 
Lepage, placed in a conspicuous position in a chapel in Paris, 



i68 PARiS 

and surrounded by flowers; and on each anniveifsaty of my death 
that a mass of Verdi or of Pergolesi, and other music, may be 
sung by the most celebrated singers in remembrance of me. . . . 

And so it Is ! On each anniversary of her death, 
mass is sung in the Madeleine, just as she had 
wished; and I am told (although of this I cannot 
be positive, as I have never attempted to attend) 
that now the crush has become so great that tickets 
are required; that a certain number are distributed 
to the students at the different studios; that all the 
great ones of the city seek admittance to this mass 
in remembrance of Marie Bashkirtseff. Grace to 
the dead! 

That reminded me that I had not yet been to the 
Gallery of the Luxembourg, where the picture so 
often mentioned in Marie Bashkirtseff 's "Journal," 
(entitled The Meeting) now hangs. 

Miss Ahnrate and I set out the very next after- 
noon to pay our visit to the picture gallery of the 
Luxembourg, which is not in the palace itself, but in 
a modern structure erected at a short distance from 
the Petit Luxembourg, which is the official residence 
of the President of the Senate. The main palace 
itself is the seat of the Senate. 

How beautiful are these sweet, old-world gardens 
of the Luxembourg. 

After entering the picture gallery, we traversed 
several rooms before we found the picture we sought. 
Yes, there they were ! hung up on the wall, — the 
ragged little urchins! On the 30th day of April, 
1884, Marie Bashkirtseff entered in her "Journal": 



THE MAGIC CITY 169 

Things are not so bad, after all, for the Gaulois speaks very 
well of me; it gives me a separate notice. The article is very 
chic. It is by Fourcaud, the Wolff of the Gaulois. 

The Voltaire treats me in the same fashion as the Gaulois. 
Both notices are important ones. The Journal des Arts also men- 
tions me, and L'Infransigeant speaks of me in terms of praise. 
... It is only the Figaro, the Gaulois and the Voltaire that give 
a general mention of the pictures on varnishing day. Am I satis- 
fied? It is very easy to answer that question; I am neither satis- 
fied nor dissatisfied. My success is just enough to keep me from 
being unhappy; that is all, . . . We remained for a long time 
seated on a bench before the picture. It attracted a good deal 
of attention, and I smiled to myself at the thought that no one 
would ever imagine the elegantly-dressed young girl seated before 
it, showing the tips of her little boots, to be the artist. . . . 

Have I achieved a success, in the true, serious meaning of the 
word } I almost think so. 

The mystery of the picture, to me Individually, 
is that a young girl, with practically unlimited wealth 
at her command, would be inclined to depict this 
phase of life, — the ragged little urchin life. I write 
her own description of her painting, which is a very 
accurate one : 

Six little boys in a group, their heads close together, half- 
length only. The eldest is about twelve, the youngest six. The 
eldest of the boys, who stands partly with his back to the spec- 
tator, holds a bird's nest in his hands, at which the others stand 
looking. The attitudes are varied and natural. 

The youngest boy, whose back only is to be seen, stands with 
folded arms and head erect. This seems commonplace, according 
to the description, but in reality all these heads grouped together 
will make an exceedingly interesting picture. 

It Is an interesting picture. The varying expres- 
sions on boyish faces, especially when viewing a bird's 
nest, could not be more accurately and vividly por- 
trayed. One of them is a devilish-looking little 
urchin, too, with hands thrust deep down in his 



17^ PARIS 

pockets, a most quizzical expression upon his face, — 
no one could safely prophesy as to what he might 
do next. 

Again : Grace to the dead ! 



CHAPTER XVIII 

THE LUXEMBOURG GALLERY 

It is much more comfortable to visit the Luxem- 
bourg Gallery than the Louvre, because the Luxem- 
bourg is much smaller. Also, the arrangement of 
the pictures is charming; one feels very much at 
home, — as if it might be possible for one to become 
somewhat acquainted with its treasures. But this 
acquaintance requires time: one must come again 
and again. 

This gallery is devoted to the works of modern 
artists, — to those still living, as well as to those re- 
cently dead. Here are to be seen the works of Du- 
bois, Saint-Marceaux, Chapu, Barrias, Currier-Bel- 
leuse, Delaplanche, Mercie, and numbers of others, 
in sculpture; and in painting, we may spend days in 
looking at the masterpieces of Henner, Lefebvre, 
Carolus-Duran, Cormon, Baudry, Breton, Cabanal, 
Gervex, Courbet, and others. 

The place is filled with modern art treasures, and 
it is a real pleasure to go there and look at the work 
of artists of our own time, — people who seem to hcf 
in touch with ourselves, and of whom we seem more 
able to gain some understanding. 

I like to go and ramble among these works of the 
171 



172 PARIS 

modern artists after a time spent at the Louvre, and 
feel the difference, — a difference that can readily be 
sensed. In the Louvre, one feels as if he were trying 
to sail among the gods; here the gods have come 
down to us so that we can occasionally catch a 
glimpse of them, and a faint understanding of what 
they are trying to impart to us. 

It is never well to be positive in our opinions about 
things we do not thoroughly understand, but it seems 
to me that the work of the artist of to-day compares 
more than favorably with the work of the older 
painters. 

Witness the landscapes. There is no landscape by 
any of the old masters that can compare with. the 
work of to-day. 

Getting down to things modern: here is a beau- 
tiful statue of Sarah Bernhardt, by Gerome, all in 
colored marble, that seems like an old friend whom 
we might greet and ask about the health of "Ca- 
mille." 

Rodin's La Pensee is a curious creation. A head, 
with a strange sort of cap-like headgear on it, sticks 
out from a great block of stone. The face does not 
strike my fancy, or appeal to my sense of the really 
beautiful, but it is all that the name implies, — a 
thoughtful, pensive face, the mind far away, leaving 
it still and deeply meditative. 

Mr. James Huneker, in writing of Baudelaire, 
says : 

Baudelaire built his ivory tower on the borders of a poetic 
Maremma, which every miasma of the spirit pervaded, every 



THE MAGIC CITY 173 

marsh light and glow-worm inhabited. Like Wagner, he painted 
in his sultry music the profundities of abysms, the vastness of 
space. He painted, too, the great nocturnal silences of the soul. 
. . . Rodin, too, is a Baudelarian. If there could be such an 
anomaly as a native wood-note evil, it would be the lyric voice 
of this poet, 

And, I suppose, the carvings of this Rodin. 

His Kiss impresses me as extremely Baudelairian. 
This work attracts and holds the attention until it 
is with difficulty the eyes turn themselves away. So 
it is wnth all of his works ; but at the same time, there 
is always that feeling of ''a strange spirit from me- 
dieval days." One interesting point, too, from a 
psychological view, is the fact that Rodin was an 
ardent admirer of Baudelaire. 

There is an attractive painting by Sain, called 
Excavations at Pompeii, which I liked because of 
the beautiful faces of those Italian women, working 
there in the blazing heat, carrying the baskets heaped 
up with the dirt and lava, which had been carefully 
dug away from the buried ruins, — all in their bare 
feet. 

What happiness these people must have exper- 
ienced, — these wonderful artist people ! — ^to be able 
to go about with heads and hearts filled with these 
beautiful creations: visions, landscapes, seas and 
skies. To be able to interpret what one sees is great- 
ness as well as joy. One absolutely ignorant of the 
grammar and rhetoric of art must still be enriched 
and ennobled by its contemplation. For the eyes 
must thereby be opened to the beauties of nature. 

One never seems to appreciate or understand the 



174 PARIS 

real difference in light until he undertakes to see 
pictures in these galleries. To see them in the morn- 
ing light is best, though just why, it might be diffi- 
cult to say. Light is light. Yes ; but the afternoon 
glow over the great galleries is shadowy and some- 
what somber; in the morning, there is a briUiance in 
the light that wanes with the day. All who have 
been there will understand what I mean. 

One might really consider the beautiful Petit Pa- 
lais, at the entrance to the Champs Elysees, as a 
continuation of the Luxembourg Gallery, for here 
are to be seen those paintings, sculptures, and other 
works of art "purchased by the City of Paris at 
the annual Salons since about 1875." 

In looking upon the work of modern artists, at 
least as represented in these collections, one notes 
an almost entire absence of those religious subjects 
to be met with in the works of the old masters. I 
saw only one Mary Magdalen in the whole collec- 
tion, and that was by Bastet; and but one Crucifixion, 
and that was by Henner. Saints and angels seem to 
have gone entirely out of fashion, and all the dread- 
ful instruments of the Passion have been almost lost 
sight of in the more peaceful things of the present 
day: the arts and crafts, the peaceful home life, the 
beautiful birds and flowers, — ^all are to be seen now, 
instead of the dreadful things of the long ago. 

There is a large painting called The Temptation 
of Saint Anthony, which is amusing. The idea that 
such a thing would be a temptation to a man like 
this saint, whose mind was so far away from women 



THE MAGIC CITY 175 

of the world, or any other kind, I am inclined to re- 
pudiate. The picture is very beautiful, but the artist 
would have to invent some other kind of temptation 
to make it seem like a real temptation to Saint An- 
thony. For some reason or other, this particular 
saint has always been represented by the artistic 
world as being tempted by woman, but just why, I do 
not know. 

Here is also a beautiful portrait of Marie Bash- 
kirtseff. If one enjoys looking on at what is being 
accomplished In our own day, I know of no more en- 
joyable a place than the Petit Palais, — next to the 
Luxembourg Gallery. 



CHAPTER XIX 

PICNICKING IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. FRENCH 
CUSTOMS 

Sometimes, of a Sunday, Miss Ahnrate, Mrs. 
Harmon, and I would take our lunches and go to 
the Bois for the day. Generally we would go by 
one of the little steamers, get off at Suresnes, and 
cross over the bridge into the woods, wandering 
about until we came to the right spot. Thereupon, 
both of my companions would get out their materials 

and sketch And I? Well, I would write, read 

or simply lounge in the grass, allowing my mind to 
wander wheresoever it would, keeping an eye on 
the various picnic-parties scattered about in our 
vicinity. 

The Bois is not far from the heart of Paris, yet 
on these quiet Sunday mornings it seemed thousands 
of miles away. The beautiful green of the velvety 
lawns stretching away as far as eye can reach, the 
ceaseless singing of the birds, the shimmer of the 
waters of the small lakes and the murmur of human 
voices coming to one in gentle waves of sound, make 
a subtle but powerful impression. One never forgets 
such influences. 

Later in the day more parties would come and 
176 



THE MAGIC CITY 177 

sit in the grass and have their luncheons: bread by 
the yard and a bottle or two of common wine. These 
picnic parties never seemed to carry anything except 
bread and wine. When I think of all we require 
for a picnic dinner (roast chicken, pies and cakes, 
pickles and cheese, ice-cream and coffee) I begin to 
wonder at the frugality of these French picnic- 
baskets and the joyousness of the revelers on such 
sHm fare. 

After having our own luncheons, we would walk 
and walk, ending our jaunt always in the neighbor- 
hood of one of the cafes in the Bois, or at Suresnes. 

Upon one of these occasions, we went to a beauti- 
ful cafe, — the Chalet, — situated on a little island in 
the middle of the Lac Inferieur in the Bois. This 
cafe is built in the style of a Swiss chalet, and very 
attractively set in the midst of its green background. 

People were coming and going constantly in long 
streams of carriages that seemed interminable. 

The women all seemed very amiable to one an- 
other, and indulged in extremely affectionate greet- 
ings, — kissing, French-fashion, on each cheek, — not 
on the lips, — ^every one receiving two kisses. 

This custom of cheek-kissing might cause one to 
ponder a little on how in the world do they manage 
the "make-up"? Of course, we all use powder, — 
so I cannot understand how they dare to indulge in 
such affectionate greetings. We can side-step the 
powder difficulty by kissing on the lips; but these 
people kiss on the cheeks, and do not seem to look 
any the worse for it. 



178 PARIS 

And the men, too ! Heaven save the mark ! They 
kiss each other, first on one cheek, then on the other, 
just as do the women! Perhaps it is all very well; 
but at first sight it seemed ludicrous. However, one 
becomes accustomed to anything, in time; and I do 
not see why men should not Indulge in this extreme 
form of greeting if they so desire. I am not sure 
that mere acquaintances do this, — the custom may be 
practiced only between old friends or relatives. 

I also noticed that ladies in France do not offer 
the first greeting to the gentlemen, — that matter 
is left to the stronger sex. The man must take 
the initiative. I am not sure that I approve this 
custom, but, as ours is in direct opposition, I must 
make allowance for prejudice. 

There is a wonderful atmosphere in Paris. I do 
not know just what it is, but one can sense it. Its 
effect is to make one full of unrest, of a desire to 
attain, — to do things. One soon begins to want to 
accomplish something. Just what I scarcely know; 
but the desire is to study and acquire knowledge. 
Such unlimited opportunity ! Art, art, everywhere ! 
And lessons are very cheap. It seems as if one 
might almost be able to draw and paint just by look- 
ing at the collections, by breathing in the art atmos- 
phere, and listening to the students' talk. 

I suppose all these desires are immeasurably 
greater than the ability to attain, but life is richer 
for having had the ability to desire. One is judged 
as much by his desires and aspirations as he is by 
his accomplishments sometimes. 



THE MAGIC CITY 179 

Strolling about one afternoon, engaged in that 
agreeable pastime of doing nothing, Miss Ahnrate 
and I came upon a beautiful, green breathing-place. 
All along the walks people were sitting in the chairs 
or on the benches, idly looking at whoever happened 
to pass, or engaged in greetings and conversations 
with one another. We soon discovered an attractive 
spot, close to the pond, and sat down, too, to see 
whatever was to be seen. 

I saw numbers of handsomely-gowned women 
sitting there, under the trees, busy with lace work 
or crochet, watching the passers-by, or observing 
the children at play. 

The Pare Monceau, "that trim and aristocratic 
garden," — a beautiful little park in itself, is made 
still more attractive by the statues and monuments 
of the "dearly beloved" that are scattered through 
the green vistas. 

Here is a beautiful monument to Guy de Maupas- 
sant, — he of the curling hair and poetic brain; here 
is also Ambroise Thomas, with his dream child Mig- 
non offering him a great bunch of flowers; here is 
Gounod, surrounded by his creations, — Marguerite, 
Juliette, Sapho; here is Chopin, contemplating that 
which he most loved, — Harmony and Night, — with 
the serene consciousness of his power to evoke them 
at will. These wonderful men and their dream- 
creatures are scattered all about, — one meets them 
at every turn. 

The neighborhood is a very aristocratic one, and 
the beautiful homes facing the park have all the 



i8o PARIS 

advantages of a private house set In Its own green 
woodland, and not a shadow of Montmartre is to 
be met with in a stroll through its quiet precincts. 

We sat there for a long time, enjoying the beau- 
ties all about us, and letting our minds dwell on the 
things they represented, and then, — Heaven pre- 
serve us! went to a cook-shop, not so very far away, 
bought a chicken, and sat at a table on the sidewalk 
while it was being cooked, and then ate the whole 
thing, washing it down with sour red wine. 

The stoves of these cook-shops are not like our 
stoves; they are more like forges, covered over with 
a roof. They use "spits," which are placed over a 
charcoal fire, and revolve round and round, until 
the bird is done. At one end of the spit is a small 
bell, which rings at the moment it is set to ring, much 
after the manner of an alarm-clock. 

People come into these shops, order a chicken, 
a steak,' — anything, — then, until It is cooked, sit at 
a table out on the sidewalk, where it Is served when 
ready. I often went to these cook-shops for things, 
whether I was hungry or not, just to enjoy watching 
these clock-like "spits" go round and round. A long 
pan, the full length of the spit, set underneath, 
catches all the grease that drops from the roasting 
meats, and is then used for other things. Just what 
I do not know. I only know that the cook is very 
careful to catch each drop. 



CHAPTER XX 

ART-STUDENT LIFE. ECOLE DES BEAUX ARTS. 
SEVRES. SAINT CLOUD 

Later on I became acquainted with another art- 
ist and his family. This man was one of my own 
countrymen, — from a town in Ohio, — ^both himself 
and wife being students at the Ecole des Beaux Arts 
(School of Fine Arts). Two children of theirs, a 
boy and a girl, were attending a private school. 

This family lived in a small, quiet street just off 
the Boulevard Saint Michel, and led a life that, 
from many points of view, appealed to me. The 
question of finance was not one to disturb them (that 
was all provided for), and they lived here, in the 
Latin Quarter, among students, surrounded by all 
those things that make life worth the living, — art, 
music, and congenial companionship, — giving them- 
selves up to the study and pursuit of knowledge 
(painting and philosophy) ; both taking the philo- 
sophical lectures at the Sorbonne, in addition to do- 
ing their art work at the Beaux Arts. 

Every Friday evening they gave an "At Home," 
to which came many students, as well as numbers 
of other clever persons. There I met some espe- 
cially bright and enthusiastic English students, — 



1 82 PARIS 

young women, who seemed to think of nothing but 
their work and studies. I also met some clever 
American girls who were studying music. These 
girls lived in a picturesque old mansion not far from 
the Bon Marche, and one afternoon they had a 
"spread," to which I was invited. 

Upon this occasion no one was invited but Ameri- 
cans. They made peanut candy, and some things 
in a chafing-dish, which none but Americans could 
comprehend. Then we had cake and several other 
curious "coincidences," and very, very much conver- 
sation. No matter how much one may like a foreign 
city and foreign things, there is something about 
home things that is very appealing when one is in a 
strange land. The odors from that chafing-dish 
lingered with me long afterward. 

Not long after that one of these girls took a heavy 
cold, and died. Her poor Httle body was sent back 
to Cleveland to her grief -stricken parents. But we 
will always remember that "spread," and how joy- 
ous she was that afternoon. 

Many such things happen to girls so far from 
home. This young girl was a magnificent pianist, 
and, perhaps, had she lived she might have become 
famous. Who knows? 

In speaking of the School of Fine Arts, Mr. Rich- 
ard Whiting says: 

Admission to the Beaux-Arts, the first art school in France, 
?nd in the world, is usually obtained by application to a pro- 
fessor for leave to become an "aspirant" member of his class, or, 
man taken on trial. Most Americans go to Gerome, and Cabana! 
is another favorite master. 



THE MAGIC CITY 183 

The student calls on the master of his choice to show his draw- 
ings, and if they are approved, he generally gets leave, forthwith, 
to enter the professor's class at the great school. 

This first interview over, the next meeting will be in the Antique, 
at a very early hour, when the professor is walking the great 
common hall in which all the ''aspirants" work. His men rise as 
he approaches, and listen with an air of profound humility to his 
criticism. They never get nearer to him than that, except at the 
annual dinner, to which each Atelier invites its professor. 

This homage to the professor is the only payment at the Beaux- 
Arts, where the poorest lads of all countries get the first teach- 
ing of the age without the expenditure of a sou. 

Some day the professor will tell the student — in answer, perhaps, 
to his second or third timid application — that he may leave the 
"Antique" for the "Atelier," where they draw from the living 
model. 

Here, after a short probation period of fagging, he will enter 
upon the more serious part of the course. The work at the 
Atelier is done in the morning; and to fill up the time the student 
often goes to a private school outside, such as Julien's, where 
Boulanger, Lefebvre, and Tony Fleury teach. 

At these schools you enter for a part of the day, or for the 
whole day, just as you like. The fees range from fifteen francs 
to forty francs a month. [Three to eight dollars.] This meets 
the wants of men who cannot get into the Beaux-Arts, or who do 
not care to try, because they think it too academical, or who object 
to its many holidays, or fancy a particular master outside. . . . 
There is special teaching for lady art students at Julien's, and 
Carolus-Duran, Chaplin, Aublet, etc., take pupils. 

The Ecole des Beaux Arts is an enormous school, 
housed in an enormous building, or rather a collec- 
tion of buildings; and in addition, is almost an art 
gallery in itself. I do not know how many students 
are enrolled, but there must be hundreds of them, — 
one meets them everywhere. 

One of the things of interest in the school is the 
great painting, the Hemicycle, by Paul Delaroche, 
in the amphitheater. This picture represents the 
schools of Art of many ages, and according to Mr. 
E. Reynolds-Ball: 



1 84 PARIS 

The idea of the picture is to portray the classical representatives 
of the arts — Apelles for Painting, Phidias for Sculpture, and 
ictinus (Parthenon) for Architecture, — distributing prizes to the 
great painters and sculptors of all ages. 

In this composition are seventy-five figures, all on a colossal 
scale. The muse who symbolizes Gothic Art, represented with 
long hair and dressed in a green mantle, is said to be a portrait 
of the artist's wife, daughter of the famous painter of battle- 
pieces, Horace Vernet. 

He also says that this "Is perhaps the finest mod- 
ern work of the kind in the world." 

One Saturday I went with the artist family to 
spend the day at Sevres and Saint Cloud. That 
sounds so tame and uninteresting when the excursion 
was so crowded with the lovely things of existence. 

We went out by steam tram ; we took seats on the 
"hurricane-deck," and every foot of the way was 
just so many feet of beauty and romance to me. I 
sat there, idly watching each new disclosure, each 
new view of the landscape never seen before. 

It was a clear, cool, bright day, — a splendid day 
for a ramble of any sort. From our elevated posi- 
tion we could see up and down the roadway; we could 
catch glimpses of white-walled houses of ancient ap- 
pearance set back in their gardens, the soft green 
of the grass contrasting vividly with the darker green 
of the rusthng trees. Jars of porcelain, filled with 
flowering plants, were in many of the windows and 
on the balconies, while around numerous houses were 
quite high walls, mellowed and yellowed by time 
and the sunshine. 

We went through several small villages, — mere 
hamlets, — all looking white and clean, passing in 



THE MAGIC CITY 185 

the road numbers of women wearing the sabot and 
carrying huge baskets on their arms. 

Looking back toward Paris at a certain point, 
the wide view over the city was like a vast rolling 
ocean of red-tiled roofs, — a perfect sea of houses, 
row after row, pierced here and there with domes 
and towers and steeples, all shining and shimmering 
in a golden haze of sunlight. 

Turning a long swinging curve, with a chuff-chug, 
we arrived at Sevres. Of course, we went into the 
porcelain manufactory, where we were permitted to 
wander about, and where I feasted my bewildered 
eyes on the thousand and one magnificent objects by 
which we were surrounded. I was especially inter- 
ested in discovering that all those little roses and 
cherubs and garlands are really painted by hand, — 
no shop-made work in them. I am fearful that some 
of those '^company" things we show at home, some- 
times, are not genuine; no matter! So long as we 
do not find it out, it will not spoil our enjoyment 
in their possession. Knowledge is sometimes cruel. 
A piece of Sevres costs a fabulous sum. But no 
wonder ! Handwork is generally expensive to all 
except the hand that actually produces it. I have 
an idea, however, that there is still some other rea- 
son for its fabulous cost. 

Later on we went for dinner to the strangest sort 
of place. By myself, I should never have discovered 
it, but my acquaintances knew all sorts of delightful 
places to eat. Something good to eat is half the 
pleasure of any excursion, to my mind. 



1 86 PARIS 

Downstairs, there was just a small, extremely 
common-looking cafe, of which an old lady was in 
charge. She greeted my companions with a smile 
of very goodly dimensions, and after a moment's 
conversation, led the way to a room upstairs that 
overlooked a garden in the rear of the house. The 
walls of the room were literally covered with car- 
toons, sketches, and drawings of many descriptions 
— humorous and otherwise. This was evidently a 
place known to the fraternity. 

A large, hospitable-looking table stood in the cen- 
ter of the room, and chairs sufficient were at once 
brought in, — the old lady talking and gesticulating 
with unabated animation as each item of the pro- 
posed dinner was mentioned. She acted as if we 
were her specially-invited guests, and begged of us 
to be at home. 

We did straightway; the father laughing and 
talking with his children with all the joyous insou- 
ciance of a boy. It would have been an impossi- 
bility not to have been happy, and the louder we. 
laughed the more the old lady seemed to enjoy it. 
She came in with each course, and talked, and talked. 

More veal and green peas! We also had cauli- 
flower cooked with cheese, and many good things; 
the whole dinner, including wine and coffee, costing 
us only about fifty or sixty cents apiece. 

All the afternoon we wandered about the beautiful 
country, climbing the little rolling hills, catching 
wonderful views from first one point, then another, 
finally wandering into the park of Saint Cloud. And 



THE MAGIC CITY 187 

when I say that this park contains one thousand 
acres, more or less, one can readily understand that 
we did not see it all in one afternoon. 

It is a great pleasure just to stroll about, letting 
the mind roam as it will, for the place is filled with 
historical associations, which can be made to live 
again by a quiet contemplation of the grounds so 
pregnant with them. A stone here, a remnant of 
a step there, a statue, a fountain, — all tell of the past. 
The cascades are still here, and one wonders at the 
elegance and magnificence of the past. These cas- 
cades of Le Notre's were displayed for the first time 
at a great fete given by Louis XIV; and one wonders 
what the beholders thought of them at that time. 
Here, too, in the palace chapel, is where Napoleon 
married Marie Louise. Indeed, the place is filled 
with phantoms; but one must regret that the palace 
is no longer there, and that we can only know it 
by hearsay. 

From the terrace of the old palace, one has an 
exquisite view over the surrounding country; and 
from the platform a little higher up, known as the 
Lanterne de Diogene, the view is unsurpassed. 

We sat there for a long time, gazing off over the 
Seine winding, like a silvery thread, through the 
valley below; and, afar off, through a gossamer- 
like haze, we could see the snowy church of the Sacre- 
Cceur on the Heights of Montmartre, the Oriental- 
looking towers of the Trocadero, the golden dome 
of the Invalides, of the Pantheon, and innumerable 
towers and steeples of churches. 



iBS PARIS 

One could spend days in roaming about the place. 
This is not so much the place to study history as it 
is to imbibe impressions; then the history of Saint 
Cloud becomes a living thing. It would be a beauti- 
ful place in any event, but the glamor of the past 
throws a spell over all its natural beauty, adding im- 
measurably to its attractiveness. 

The little town itself is nothing, — a mere village. 
The eating-houses scattered about are uninteresting, 
and anything but picturesque. However, one need 
not look at them, if he wants to dream of the past. 

Many days after this first visit were spent in the 
same way, — dinner with the old lady, then rambles 
and sketching in Saint Cloud. 

The two children of my artist friends fairly 
glowed with a knowledge of the past that had been 
acquired without effort: it was all spread out before 
them, so that their knowledge and understanding 
was of a kind almost impossible to acquire from 
books alone. 



CHAPTER XXI 

THE SORBONNE. A VISIT TO THE JARDIN DES PLANTES 

Upon another occasion, I went with my artist 
friends to the Sorbonne, the University of Paris, 
where they attended the lectures on Philosophy. 

This is an inspiring place, — one feels the atmos- 
phere at once. The eye, also, is pleased; for beauti- 
ful paintings cover the walls, exquisite statuary 
adorns the rooms and halls. Here is a great amphi- 
theater that accommodates about four thousand per- 
sons; and everything is present that will tend to 
stimulate the imagination as well as to arouse the 
intellect. Baedeker states that there are over seven- 
teen thousand students in the five faculties, including 
three to four thousand women ; and all of these stu- 
dents receive this instruction without the expendi- 
ture of a dollar. The lectures are free to all. This 
is another one of the beautiful things that France 
does for the world at large. 

Later on I met an entrancingly pretty American 
girl. She had been graduated from Stanford, and 
was then taking lectures at the Sorbonne, but con- 
fessed that she had difficulty once in a while, as 
French in Paris seemed to be pronounced somewhat 
differently from that at Stanford, 

;89 



190 PARIS 

In the Church of the Sorbonne is the tomb of 
Cardinal Richelieu, — somewhat theatrical, but beau- 
tiful. A sculptured image of the marvelous man 
reclining against a calm, superb woman representing 
Religion; at the foot, is a doubled-up, grief-stricken 
female representing Science, — all in marble. I can- 
not, however, believe that the sagacious, all-powerful 
Cardinal, ever wore that resigned, entranced look 
upon his face in real life. 

One beautiful day the American family and I 
made a day of it in the Jardin des Plantes, — a huge 
garden-park of seventy-five acres, filled with terri- 
ble, horrible and, at the same time, interesting things. 

It is a huge botanical garden, filled with exquisite 
plants and flowers of every known description, but, 
— there are horrible reptiles there, curling and wrig- 
gling in their pavilions, and more ferocious animals 
than would be found in half a dozen circuses, and 
around which is always a throng of the curious, gaz- 
ing in open-mouthed wonder at these terrible crea- 
tures. Having just finished reading "The Story of 
Ab," I was more interested than I might otherwise 
have been in viewing the great Anthropological and 
Paleontological collections. 

Here one sees the growth and development of 
all the races and sub-races of mankind, as shown 
by skeletons and casts, and one stands and ponders 
a bit on what has been and what now is. This must 
be an extremely interesting spot to the savants who 
devote their lives to these studies. 

There is the huge Menagerie, Botanical Garden, 



THE MAGIC CITY 191 

Laboratories, Library, Lecture Hall, as well as 
various Museums. In addition, the huge garden is 
decorated by statues of men famous in this particu- 
lar line of research, huge groups of marble illustra- 
tive of the combat between men and animals, and so 
on. 

Stuffed animals abound here; and there are great 
numbers of casts which have been taken of cele- 
brated criminals' heads, besides there are numbers of 
death-masks of famous men, which almost anybody 
would find interesting. 

With its vast collections of plant life, — as well 
as of animal life past and present, — it has become 
really a vast outdoor university, to which students 
and savants from every clime come, to their own 
pleasure and profit. 

We returned by way of the river, in that soft, 
purple evening light of which Paris seems to have 
such a generous supply; and while the scenery along 
this part is not so beautiful as it is further along (at 
the other end of the City), one gains some idea of 
the vastness of the shipping interests of the place. 
Large wharves and warehouses extend for a great 
distance along the river front, all looking huge and 
shadowy in the misty light. To quote an authority : 

Paris is the chief mercantile port of France. More than i8,ooo 
craft descend the river annually from Paris, and more than 23,000 
ascend it; and about seven million tons of goods (valued at 28,000,- 
000 francs) are entered and cleared via the river. This water- 
borne merchandise consists principally of building materials, wine, 
forage, manures, grain, flour, spirits and coal. 



CHAPTER XXII 

THE MONA LISA. THE MESSAGE OF LEONARDO DA 
VINCL THE PAINTINGS IN THE LOUVRE 

One of the most agreeable opportunities of life 
must have presented itself when one finds himself 
at liberty to wander through the Louvre at will, — 
through miles and miles of paintings, sculptures, and 
other treasures of art, — and satiate himself with 
those things which appeal most to one's sense of ap- 
preciation. If one is rushed, — has only a short time 
at his disposal, — this is not possible ; but to one hav- 
ing an abundance of time, it is delightful to take 
one painter at a time, study his pictures, and try to 
form some opinion as to his message. 

As there are over a thousand paintings in the 
French section alone, one can easily understand why 
it would require time to even glimpse them all. 

The works of the French painters attracted me 
very strongly for the reason that I was on French 
soil, where one could, supposedly, see their work to 
better advantage than elsewhere. Where could one 
hope to see pictures to better advantage than upon 
the artist's own ground? 

Here are also acres and acres of the paintings of 
foreign artists, — the work of artists from all over 

192 



THE MAGIC CITY 193 

the world. I doubt if any one has really seen all 
there is to be seen here, for the place covers fifty 
acres of ground! 

I had wanted to see the Mona Lisa all my life, 
and, — here she was ! I had wanted to call upon her 
the very first day I was in Paris, but got switched off 
to the Morgue instead! 

Every one speaks of her "inscrutable smile," but 
I see the same smile, or rather expression, in almost 
every face given to the world by the wonderful 
Italian. 

One cannot help wondering of what she is think- 
ing, — of what she can possibly be looking at, as she 
sits there, slightly leaning on the arm of her chair. 
She seems to be a little amused at something, — ■ 
something that is not revealed to us, as it is just out 
of the range of our vision. She is not uproarious 
over it, whatever it is, — simply a little amused. 

I looked and looked, trying to find out why people 
raved over it so much. But, after all my scrutiny, 
still I don't know; I have never discovered the rea- 
son for its tremendous popularity. I found that I 
did not like her nose ; it is somewhat repellent. Her 
chin was too pointed, I thought; and the top of her 
pretty face seemed too heavy for the lower portion. 
That is merely my taste. The whole world says she 
is beautiful beyond words. 

Nearly all of Leonardo's women look at one from 
the corners of their eyes, instead of straight in front, 
which adds somewhat to the mysteriousness of their 
expressions. So much has been written of this one 



194 PARIS 

picture, that to even mention it seems banal, but 
while it is a strangely attractive face, I found, after 
gazing at it a number of times, that I did not think 
it so beautiful after all. 

That same expression exists, to a greater or less 
extent, in the Virgin of the Rocks. It is also to be 
seen on the face of the beautiful long-haired angel 
squatting at the left side of the Virgin. Artists make 
infants perform strange feats. The infant by the 
side of the beautiful, long-haired angel has twisted 
his first two fingers in a way that is peculiar. It 
could not be done by an infant. We tried it our- 
selves and found it a difficult maneuver, and won- 
dered how the little fat baby had managed it. The 
Infant Christ holds out His hands in a sort of sup- 
plication to the angel and child, and I could not im- 
agine why, since the child points his crossed fingers 
at Him, and the beautiful long-haired angel aims 
an index finger at the Christ child while looking the 
other way. It makes one long to understand just 
what the artist had in mind. 

The rocks in the background look unnatural, — 
uncanny. One would hesitate to visit that spot alone 
in the dark. It is impossible to explain or try to 
describe paintings with mere words; their meanings 
are too elusive. 

In his beautiful picture of Saint Anna, the Virgin, 
and the Infant Jesus, there is again that peculiar 
expression, — the same "inscrutable smile." This 
picture is an expression of family affection. Saint 
Anna is holding the Virgin upon her knees, while 



THE MAGIC CITY 195 

the Virgin extends her arms to the Infant Jesus, who 
Is lovingly clasping a little woolly lamb. Sweet smiles 
are on all the faces; even the little woolly lamb is 
smiling as he turns an inquiring face up to the Virgin 
and her mother. What a beautiful woman Leonardo 
da Vinci has presented to us in Saint Anna I She 
is Mona Lisa grown older. 

The paintings of Mantegna seem to strike a note 
entirely different from that of other artists; In his 
crucifixion, the aerial city, which seems to float in the 
background, is strange and suggestive; one feels a 
desire to start out on a still hunt for It, and when 
found, to wander along that filmy pathway that 
seems to lead up to the gossamer-like city on the 
hill. But no one, perhaps, could ever find it. 

In this Crucifixion, the soldiers about the cross 
all seem like gentlemen, — courtiers, not rude Roman 
soldiers. Mr. Reynolds-Ball says: 

This painting, perhaps the finest example of Mantegna in the 
Louvre or elsewhere, formed the predella of the great Madonna 
by this Master in San Zeno at Verona. Both were formerly in 
the Louvre, but at the Restoration the Madonna was returned at 
San Zeno. 

Mantegna's Madonna of Victory is most gor- 
geous. The Madonna Is seated in a throne-like chair 
of rich, dark wood, all carved and studded, while 
over her Is a canopy formed like a great spreading 
shell, almost covered with jewel-like flowers, and 
leaves, and vines. Theophile Gautler has said of 
this picture: 

This masterpiece is a page of chivalry in a frame of chastity. 
These warrior saints, these rich decorations, and this profusion of 



196 PARIS 

flowers and jewels give to religion an unwonted aspect of triumph^ 
and brilliance which lends originality to a somewhat hackneyed 
subject. 

Another one of the strange, beautiful pictures by 
Mantegna, is his Parnassus, and according to vari- 
ous authorities, is one of the painter's masterpieces. 
Jules Guiffrey says of it: 

One of the purest masterpieces of the Italian Renaissance is 
Parnassus, — that picture where, in a landscape that one only 
sees in dreams, the nine Muses, in light tunics, of varied and 
clinging hue, gaily dance and sing upon the grass to the sounds 
of the lyre with which Apollo seated on the left, accompanies his 
own songs. Pegasus is on the right, and Mercury is standing near 
him ; while in the middle distance, on a rock, cut out in the form 
of an arch, and showing in the distance the green and flowery 
declivities of Helicon, Mars and Venus are revealed, standing in 
front of a mass of orange trees. Near them, Cupid annoys with 
his arrows Vulcan, who appears, furious, at the entrance of a 
grotto where his furnace flames. 

Nowhere else, in all the work of Mantegna, does woman hold so 
great a place as in this picture, inspired by a woman as attractive 
by the charms of her beauty as by the cultivation of her mind. 
These Muses, in their varied attitudes of healthful grace, without 
affectation or archness, reveal memories of antique sculpture; and 
we believe that we can see the inspiration, or the copy of a Greek 
marble, in the beautiful body of Venus, who is the one nude female 
preserved to us in all the works painted by Mantegna. 

A whole host of phantoms seem to hover about 
the beautiful picture of Madame Recamier, but one 
must come in the right frame of mind to see their 
filmy, shadowy outlines. Perhaps that of Chateau- 
briand is strongest, — one can scarcely think of one 
and not of the other. It is not the face of the ex- 
quisitely-posed woman that is so beautiful; it is not 
the beautiful feet which have been left bare; it is 
the — well, something intangible that draws with an 
attraction that holds people spellbound before it. 



THE MAGIC CITY 197 

One ponders and ponders, trying to find the secret 
of the lure. 

There was one painting, in a room close by, that 
fairly hypnotized me : I could not get away from it. 
Time and time again I felt compelled to go and look 
at it. It seems to me the very incarnation of some 
sinister evil, but I never found out just what the pic- 
ture meant. It is the Youthful Martyr, by Paul 
Delaroche. Why martyred, and who did it, and how 
was it done ? Perhaps I shall never know. 

This painting represents a beautiful girl, dressed 
in a white robe, floating in water of a dark, somber 
green, the face alone being above water. Her hands 
are tied together, and she is dead! Dead! Upon 
a high, steep bank above the river, stand a man and 
a woman, looking with strangely quiet eyes down 
upon the floating, dead body of the young girl, — ■ 
two motionless figures against the somber sky, while 
the dim outlines of some strange-looking vessel just 
dip in at one end of the picture. There is a somber 
hue over the whole picture, which attracts and re- 
pels at the same time. Are the man and woman 
parties to the deed of blood, or helpless, sorrowing 
friends? Again I ask: Why was she martyred, and 
by whom, and for what reason? Was she one of 
the Christian martyrs? I wanted to find out, and 
have never found any one who knows. I could not 
get away from that painting, but I have never heard 
it mentioned by any one else. 

I rather like these lonely-looking pictures, such as 
Le Printemps by Rousseau. What a far-away, 



198 PARIS 

lonely place ! The few gaunt trees trailing off into 
a far-distant space make one long to sit down and 
gaze away off somewhere, into some unknown 
sphere; and the pale water offers no temptation to 
those who like to go wading, — it is too lonesome 
looking. 

O, Italy! I believe I like the Italian pictures 
best of all. What beautiful faces! The women 
given to the world by Italian painters are nearly all 
beautiful. 

Perugino's "Madonna, Saints and Angels" is filled 
with lovely faces. Here is the beautiful Virgin, with 
little soft curls falling on either side of the face, and 
the angels in the golden background, really angehc 
in their loveliness. But these angel faces are always 
the faces of human beings. We have not yet been 
able to get beyond that, with all our splendid repre- 
sentations. And, too, the wings that sway at the 
shoulders of angelic forms, as well as all the marks 
of Monsieur le Devil are borrowed from the animal 
kingdom. Therefore, despite the soarings of imagi- 
nation, we have not been able to pierce the unseen 
and depict it upon canvas. No supernatural mes- 
senger has yet arrived in the artist's world, or he 
would carry some sign or mark to show that he was 
not of the earth, earthy. No, these angels are all 
human beings. 

Raphael leaves me cold. He touches me in no 
spot whatsoever. I look upon the good fortune to 
view his paintings as one of the beautiful opportuni- 
ties of life ; but they leave me without the least desire 



THE MAGIC CITY 199 

to look behind them, to peek around the corners 
of the frames to see if there is not, perhaps, some 
way of getting through, into the beautiful places de- 
picted. 

Andrea del Sarto has the opposite effect upon my 
imagination. His colors are so warm, his faces all 
so friendly and human, that one has a feeling of un- 
derstanding, as of somebody who can be approached 
and interrogated. 

Titian's Entombment is one of those great paint- 
ings that attract by its contrasts, — the contrast of the 
white of the dead body with the white of the linen 
sheet wrapped about it; the contrast of the frowning 
man with the parted hair in the background and the 
gentle, sympathetic man in the foreground, who is 
lifting the feet of the dead Saviour. 

So it is with the Girl at Her Toilet. She wears an 
enigmatic expression, as though the man in the deep 
shadow behind her had said something, the effect of 
which had been to stay her hands as she was in the 
act of pinning up her hair; in another instant, she will 
whirl around and face him with angry eyes. He 
had better have a care. To quote : 

The light is concentrated with unusual force upon the face and 
bust of the girl, whilst the form and features of the man are lost 
in darkness. We pass with surprising rapidity from the most 
delicate silvery gradations of sunlit-flesh and drapery to the mys- 
terious depths of an almost unfathomable gloom, and we stand 
before a modeled balance of light and shade that recalls Da 
Vinci, entranced by a chord of tonic harmony as sweet and as 
thrilling as was ever struck by any artist of the Venetian School. 

This contrast of light and shade is as pronounced 
in all of Titian's pictures as are those curious, aes- 



200 PARIS 

thetic eyes In the pictures of Memling, and the 
strange combinations of rich dark contrasting col- 
ors in the Van Eykes. These are characteristics that, 
to my vision, are apparent in the works of each one 
of these masters. 

The beautiful feature of the Madonna with the 
Rabbit is the exquisite woman in the foreground 
(with pearls in her hair, which are entwined about 
a sort of bejeweled bandeau) holding the infant in 
her arms. The face expresses the most tender affec- 
tion for the babe. At one side, the Madonna kneels 
on the ground, clasping a tiny white rabbit with one 
hand, while she seems to be trying to turn the Infant's 
head with the other, so that he may see bunny. It is 
very beautiful in its extreme simplicity; — but, the 
faces are all human. 

How the people come and go ! It is interesting to 
note the different pictures that seem to have the larg- 
est personal popularity. There are hundreds of 
paintings here of which we have never heard; there 
are dozens of which all have heard; and these great, 
popular, well-known works are the first ones sought 
out. Naturally this would be true : they were the 
ones that I searched for first; I wanted to see those 
that every one else had seen. But in my seeking the 
famous canvases I saw hundreds of pictures that 
were just as lovely, and in some instances, much more 
so, than many of the great masterpieces. It is in- 
teresting, too, to attach oneself to a group and listen 
to the comments. One learns much in this way, and, 
in addition, it is an entertaining enterprise. The attl- 



THE MAGIC CITY 201 

tude of different persons toward pictures makes an 
interesting study. 

When I come across pictures by Dutch artists, I 
feel as one meeting some old friend unexpectedly. 
That is how I felt when I came suddenly upon The 
Lacemaker by Jan Vermeer of Delft. She looked 
just like the little roly-poly woman in Rotterdam who 
taught me how to make lace. As the woman in the 
picture leans over her bobbins and cushions, intent 
upon following the design tacked to the cushion, so 
did the little woman lean in her window in Rotter- 
dam when my attention was first attracted to her, 
and the possibilities of lace-making as a diversion. 
It shows that times have not changed very materially 
since Jan's day, so far as lace-making is concerned. 

When I was in the Netherlands, I found myself 
so often objecting to portraits, of which there is such 
a profuse collection. Now, that I am away, and 
those days are a mere dream, I find that when I meet 
one of these Netherlandish portraits that I salute it 
with pleasure, — as I might some one I once had 
known. 

Portraits, in certain instances, are fascinating. 
One stands long before them, wondering and think- 
ing. The one of Rene Descartes, the real father of 
modern psychology, by Franz Flals, halts the at- 
tention, and one gazes with thoughtful eyes into 
those strange, slumberous orbs almost half covered 
by the heavy, drooping lids. It is a face that pleases. 
One thinks of the marvelous intellect that glowed 
under that great mass of curling hair. 



202 PARIS 

Franz Hals' Bohemian Girl is a lovely picture of 
a strongly-built, sturdy little Dutch girl, with a curi- 
ous smile on her little fat, round face, looking out 
at the corners of her eyes, — but in a different way 
from Leonardo's women. This is the Dutch style 
of stealing glances from the corners of the eyes. 
Da Vinci's women do it in the Italian way. 

This girl's hair falls loosely at the back of her 
head, and a straggling little "bang" falls over her 
forehead. I am just as curious about what she is 
smiling at as I am about what Mona Lisa is smiling 
at; this little Dutch girl has also an "inscrutable" 
smile. 

Terburg's La Legon de Lecture has a woman in 
it that is gifted with the most extraordinary pug nose 
imaginable, — it turns everlastingly heavenward. This 
is undoubtedly a portrait, and that she is from Hol- 
land there can be no doubt, judging from her dress. 
The child, however, is a beauty, — a dear little curly- 
headed thing, trying to read something from a book 
as big as the family Bible, while the woman looks 
off into space, a preoccupied expression upon her 
face, as though she were trying to count the pieces 
of soap necessary for the laundry, while endeavoring 
to "do her duty" and hear the child say its lesson. 
Her mind is far away from the child and its lesson. 

Are great paintings ever supposed to be humor- 
ous? The Animals Entering the Ark, by Fr. Sny- 
ders, strikes me as "humorous," and I keep won- 
dering if he really meant it? 

Here are twenty-two great paintings by the prince- 



THE MAGIC CITY 203 

ly Rembrandt, but I enjoyed the work of this Mas- 
ter more in his own country. It seems to me that 
all his canvases should all be there together. It was 
so familiar and homelike to see dear old Bathsheba 
still at her eternal bath. She was bathing in every 
gallery in Holland and Belgium, and Rembrandt 
gives her a bath in the Louvre as well. She does 
not convey the idea that she is really taking a bath 
so much as that she is simply posing as a study in 
the nude. Baedeker says that it is an "excellent 
though realistic female study," and the word ''real- 
istic" describes Bathsheba. 

It seems to me that the extreme elegance of the 
Vandyke people renders them just a little cold and 
supercilious. A curl out of place, a lace collar just 
a little awry, would bring them down at once from 
their gilded frames to protest. 

The stately, magnificently-gowned woman in A 
Woman and Her Child seems too old and too stately 
to be the mother of the little girl standing at her 
side, dressed like a little grandmother, her dress 
a reproduction of that worn by the mother. She is 
too magnificent in her stateliness to convey the idea 
of a mother. This woman could never caress a 
child, — not with that wonderful lace collar around 
her stately white throat! She looks an empress, — 
surely nothing less. No other less mighty station 
would fit her magnificence. 

Vandyke's portraits of the great and mighty are all 
just as stately and magnificent. 

For a few mornings I devoted myself entirely to 



204 PARIS 

Corot. His painting of Le Pont de Nantes suggests 
such wonderful dreamlike possibilities. What 
strange-looking little houses are built on the bridge 
that spans the river I I wanted so much to come close 
up to them, to cross the bridge, and see what the 
fronts looked like, — ^but they were only painted, and 
I could never get any closer to them, or peer into 
those imaginary front windows facing the bridge. 
The landscape beyond the bridge is cut off short, 
as it were, leaving the feeling that there are wonder- 
ful things to be seen just beyond the line of vision; 
one can see, dimly, that there is a house nestling 
on the misty hill-side, but cannot see it plainly enough 
to tell anything about it. Oh, these elusive pic- 
tures ! They keep one guessing and wondering all 
the time! Corot himself said: "When everything 
becomes visible, there is no longer anything." Ah! 
so he means to mystify us! 

Not all pictures have this effect upon one, — -only 
a few of them. Many pictures are not suggestive 
at all. They tell one all they mean to tell at once, 
and are done with it. There are other pictures that 
affect one as Alice was affected by the looking- 
glass; — one wants to look behind them, or crawl 
straight through them, and go wandering on and 
on, through the miraculous gates, out into the en- 
chanted land beyond. To revert to The Youthful 
Martyr, that man and woman on the river bank 
affect me in that very way: I want so much to clam- 
ber up that river bank and demand of them whether 
they killed that young girl, or whether they know 



I 



THE MAGIC CITY 205 

who had done so cruel a deed. But what can one do 
with painted villains? Oh, perhaps, they were 
saints, or other persecuted ones? I do not know. 
All I know is that the beautiful girl is dead and her 
body is floating in the river. 

Corot keeps one on the qui vive all the time. In 
the beautiful La Vallon a little group of country 
women and a child stand looking away off at some- 
thing. One of the women is pointing at it, whatever 
it is, and I am filled with the most intense curiosity. 
I, too, want to see what they see. But, as usual, 
it is just beyond the grasp of vision. I have no idea 
of what they are so intently gazing at, and feel a 
sense of injustice that they can see what I may not 
see, and, alas ! never shall be able to see. But that 
is Corot. He keeps one's curiosity ever keyed to 
concert pitch. 

Greuze is a great favorite with most people be- 
cause of his beautiful delineation of young, girlish 
faces, but I did not seem to get all the pleasure 
from their contemplation that others seemed to get. 
However, one cannot say that they are not beauti- 
ful, but I do not detect any great mentality in those 
lovely girlish faces that smile at one so bewitch- 
ingly. 

Rubens was evidently an admirer of women of 
imposing size, for nearly all of his women are not 
only "stout" but decidedly fat. Those eighteen or 
twenty immense paintings of scenes from the life of 
Marie de Medici all depict fat women, many of 
them robed in pink, but this fatness does not seem 



2o6 PARIS 

to detract any from their beauty on canvas. The 
walls of one immense room are lined with these ro- 
bust women; they seem more like scenes from the 
lives of the Olympian gods than from the life of a 
real personage. 

Marie de Medici ordered them, I believe, for the 
Luxembourg Palace, when that was one of her resi- 
dences, and they illustrate, in an allegorical way, 
her marriage with Henry IV, being said to form 
the most important series of such paintings in the 
world. 

The Venus, in the painting Venus and Love, is 
another fat woman, — enormous, — and the little 
Love is so very, very thin that one begins to wonder 
whether there was a double meaning intended. How- 
ever, the attitude of the woman is so sweet and 
caressing that it is an easy matter to forgive her 
the extra pounds. 

Mrs. Harmon was copying the Immaculate Con- 
ception, by Murillo, and her splint-bottomed stool 
was surrounded most of the time by people standing 
about, watching each stroke of her brush, till I won- 
dered how she could possibly do her work. How- 
ever, she did not seem to mind it, and painted away, 
day after day, as though other persons did not exist 
for her. A copyist must have an enormous amount 
of faith in his ability, or it would not be possible to 
do his work, in this way, under the public gaze. 
When Mrs. Harmon's picture was finished, I could 
not tell it from the original. I suppose an artist 
might; but, to the uninitiated, I do not see how it 



THE MAGIC CITY 207 

would be possible. It was all there, color for color, 
moon for moon, — all I And — she received $1,500.00 
for it. Of Murillo's Immaculate Conception, Aime 
Giron says: 

In a diaphanous atmosphere, gilded with an invisible clearness 
as of Paradise, the winged heads and bodies of little angels are 
moving: the former gracefully grouped, the latter boldly and skill- 
fully disposed. 

The celestial infants have followed all the way to the earth the 
rays of celestial light in its elusive gradations of color under its 
imperceptible glazing. 

In the center, in the act of ascent, the Virgin rises in ecstasy. 
One corner of a cloud, the crescent moon, and a masterly group 
of little angels, naked and enraptured, bear the Immaculate aloft. 
Gracefully and statuesquely posed, and broadly draped in a white 
robe with sober folds enriched by an ample scarf of light blue, 
she modestly hides her feet under the drapery and chastely crosses 
her hands over the breast in which she feels the conception of the 
Son of God operating. Her head under its disheveled waves of 
black hair, a little turned back and bending slightly to one side, 
is raised to heaven with uplifted eyes and open mouth, as if to 
receive in every sense the flow of the spirit. The face, in the 
exquisite sweetness of a surrender to piety, reflects the bliss of 
Faith, of mystical voluptuousness, and divine ecstasy. The expres- 
sion is religious, but the Virgin is human, and full of life in the 
firmness of her lines and the warmth of her flesh-tints. 

Beneath the suppleness of the drawing and the soft touches, we 
recognize in Mary the Immaculate, the woman, and even the 
Andalusian. 

Peace Bringing Plenty by Vigee Le Brun, is an- 
other marvel of soft, sweet beauty. In it are two 
women. The face of the blonde is marvelously beau- 
tiful, the hair entwined with roses and foliage ; while 
a magnificent woman of the brunette type looks down 
into her face, one arm thrown about her shoulders, 
seeming to lead her away somewhere, — to some en- 
chanted land. 

The ceilings of the Louvre form a picture gallery 



2o8 PARIS 

by themselves. If one holds a small hand-mirror, 
he can see the ceilings without lifting the head at all. 

Paintings of most gorgeous colorings cover all the 
ceilings, room after room, and the copious use of 
gilding gives the effect of frames about them. These 
paintings are well worth looking at, as many of them 
are more beautiful than the pictures that line the 
walls. 

We used to go to the Gallerie d'Apollon and sit 
there, on a settee, and examine the ceiling pictures 
by the hour; and we did this too, in the Salon Carre, 
the magnificently-decorated ceiling of which was ex- 
ecuted by Simart. 

It is in this room that one discovers the exquisite 
Betrothal of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, by Cor- 
reggio. "So beautiful are the faces," says Vasari, 
"that they seem to have been painted in Paradise." 

After looking at these gold-background paintings 
of the Italian Masters, everything else seems tame. 
I love them, even though these masters did not study 
anatomy so thoroughly as did the Dutch. Person- 
ally, I believe I would rather look at pictures devoid 
of all anatomical exactness than to stumble on to 
another such display as I saw in that dreadful room 
in the Rykes Museum filled with, as Baedeker says, 
"Anatomical Subjects." These pictures of the Ital- 
ians are minus the horrors I encountered in that gal- 
lery. 

There is here a charming picture of an Old Lady 
Reading Her Bible, by Gerard Dow, which Baedeker 
says is the mother of Rembrandt, My attention waa 



THE MAGIC CITY 209 

attracted to the painting because of that notation. 
She was a beautiful old lady, if that is her portrait, 
but her son did not resemble her very much. 

One might suppose that atmosphere is atmos- 
phere, — nothing more. But if one looks at Claude 
Lorraine's Harbor at Sunset and then at his Harbor 
at Sunrise, he will be surprised to see what a differ- 
ence there is, — what a difference between the light 
of evening and that of morning, — even though both 
canvases have the same grayish-pink tints. One 
might be able to tell the difference even if the name 
were omitted from the paintings. 

There is a Hall of Portraits, — portraits of differ- 
ent artists, — which I found interesting for the reason 
that I, personally, find that a painting means more 
to me if I know something of the painter. Thus, 
for me to see his portrait, and be able to form some 
idea of how he appeared in life, is an advantage, 
because thereafter I enjoy his works more com- 
pletely. 

Here is Greuze; Vernet, the painter of the great 
battle-pieces; Mme. Le Brun; Coypel, David, Tin- 
toretto, Rosseau, Soufflot, the architect; a bust of 
David by Rude, and dozens more. 

The Gleaners, by Millet, is very much in the style 
of his wonderful Angelus, — one sees always, the 
hand of the same artist. I could not help recalling 
how we stood for hours in long lines, in Chicago, 
waiting our turn to get in and see the Angelus when 
it was exhibited in our country a number of years 
ago. Lines of people stretched for two blocks be- 



210 PARIS 

yond the entrance, all patiently waiting for an op- 
portunity to view that one picture: workingmen, 
workingwomen, people with babies in arms, and lit- 
tle ones held by the hand, — all waiting their turn to 
enter. 

The beautiful Gallerie d'Apollon, — ceiling, wall, 
floor, — -is one enormous jewel. On the walls are 
twenty-five or thirty portraits of the French Kings 
and of artists, all wrought in Gobelin tapestry. In 
the middle of the room are cases filled with treas- 
ures worth probably several million dollars. One 
feels a sense of surprise, amounting almost to amaze- 
ment, that this gallery is not more strongly guarded 
than it is. I think there is only one guardian in 
the whole room, — not more than two, at the most. 

It would require many days to see all that is to 
be seen in this one room, and the more one sees and 
studies these objects the more he is filled with amaze- 
ment at the ingenuity of the human mind. It seems 
incredible that human beings could ever have thought 
of all these things, and thinking, have produced 
them. 

There are enameled caskets, enameled gold vases 
and cups; vessels of strange, beautiful designs, made 
of rock crystal; Venetian basins; silver-gilt work of 
various kinds; statuettes; enameled croziers and rel- 
iquaries; bejeweled crosses and chalices; Holy 
Water basins in agate and silver-gilt; Polish and 
German goblets of curious workmanship; mon- 
strances; cups of silver and gold, carved and be- 
jeweled; a great dish of lapis-lazuli in the form of 



THE MAGIC CITY 211 

a barge, trimmed with gold and enamel; bonbon 
dishes and trays ; ewers set with diamonds and other 
precious stones; a vase of jasper with handles to 
represent dragons; busts, cameos and incense hold- 
ers; a tray decorated with real pearls of great value; 
the Regent, a 136-carat diamond worth two or three 
million dollars; rubies; pearls; it would be a day's 
work just to enumerate them all. 

Besides all these things, there are the beautiful 
tables with gilded legs completely covered with carv- 
ings, and marble tops, and many pieces of other beau- 
tiful furniture to be seen. I spent weeks in trying 
to form some idea of the treasures in that one room, 
but came away feeling certain that there were many 
things there that I had not even glimpsed, — did not 
know they were there, — had never heard of them. 
France evidently has plenty of money — she is not 
at all poverty stricken, in spite of her many revolu- 
tions. 

There is one room filled with objects carved in 
ivory. Among them is an exquisite Madonna, which 
seems, while gazing at it, more beautiful than any 
of those upon canvas. But I cannot be sure of 
this, because when looking at the painted Virgins, 
one almost forgets the ivory Virgin and vice versa. 
Most all the ivories have ecclesiastical associations 
and are ascribed by different authorities to French, 
German, and even to Oriental workmanship. Words 
convey only a meager impression of the beauty and 
the curiosity of this vast collection of exquisite 
ivories. 



212 PARIS 

If one has a taste for old furniture, utensils, cop- 
per and brass, the opportunity to indulge it is un- 
limited in the Louvre. I spent days just prowling 
about. There are not so many visitors in this por- 
tion of the vast museum, therefore all is very quiet 
and one can do as he likes. 

With all our modern inventions, I do not believe 
that we have yet introduced any designs more beau- 
tiful in taste and elegance than those to be seen in 
the old furniture of the seventeenth and eighteenth 
centuries. Such exquisite tables, with carved and 
begilded legs! Beautiful bedsteads with immense 
canopies of silk and velvets; magnificent bureaus, 
consols, commodes, cabinets, and so forth. One may 
spend days among these beautiful old things and 
never tire of looking at them, — at their beautiful 
lines and graceful proportions. I will admit, how- 
ever, that I prefer our modern springs and hair mat- 
tresses. 

All of these things speak of the royal personages 
who once used them; and I have the feeling some- 
times, while roaming about, that their former oc- 
cupants come back and watch us as we move around 
among their old furniture and art treasures, — per- 
haps flit about and are amused at our curiosity, and 
look at us as we comment on them, and perhaps feel 
that we are mere shadows flitting here and there. 

One does not gain an idea of the home life of 
the French people from this collection, however, as 
one does from the collections of furniture and house- 
hold utensils in the Netherlands, where the objects 



THE MAGIC CITY 213 

are those used by the people themselves, and not 
those used by royalty and the nobility. The Louvre 
collection is, above all things, a "Royal" one. 

A visit to the Louvre on Sunday is different from 
one made during the week. There is a different 
atmosphere. On Sunday the great gallery Is thrown 
open, — free to all the world. It is then crowded 
with the people of Paris who work for a living dur- 
ing the other six days of the week. Workingmen 
come by the score, sometimes with four or five young- 
sters besides the mother, and probably some of the 
family relations. I have gone numbers of times 
just to see these splendid people, and to quietly en- 
joy the impressions I received. 

I was always interested in noticing what, in par- 
ticular, seemed to appeal to them most. By some 
sort of intuition, divine or French, they never 
stopped to look at anything except the very best that 
the Gallery had to offer. I noticed, too, that land- 
scapes appealed to the average Frenchman more than 
did any other form of painting. 

The masses in Paris could not fail to acquire a 
certain amount of culture, when all this magnificent 
array of art is spread out, free, for all who care to 
contemplate it. These French workmen and their 
families stroll through the long galleries, talking and 
gesticulating, shrugging shoulders and lifting eye- 
brows, criticizing and discussing with the assurance 
that knowledge alone could give. As I watched 
them, I could not help thinking of what a mighty 
force for good is an art gallery. 



CHAPTER XXIII 

SAINT GERMAIN-L'AUXERROIS. THE GARDENS OF THE 
TUILERIES. THE GOBELIN INDUSTRY 

Talking about pictures, there is one in the Hos- 
pice de la Salpetriere (the place where Manon Les- 
cot was imprisoned) , which ought to be placed with 
the Lesson in Anatomy, and then both of them locked 
up in that dissecting-room at Amsterdam, or some 
other place, out of sight of the general public. This 
is an enormous painting by Tony Robert-Fleury, 
wherein Dr. Pinel (the beneficent friend of the in- 
sane) is depicted as delivering the insane from tor- 
ture. It gives too much ground for horrible con- 
jecture. If the insane are tortured, it is dreadful 
to think of; but so long as we cannot help it, what 
is the use of thinking any more about it than neces- 
sary? Still, if we must have these huge paintings 
of torture and anatomy, an insane asylum is as good 
a place for them as elsewhere, and perhaps better. 

Maybe the picture has accomplished something, — 
brought some benefit to the insane. I do not know, 
but I do not want to look at it again. 

The French are very fond of placing these huge 
paintings in nearly all their public buildings, — some- 

214 



THE MAGIC CITY 215 

thing that bears upon the subject or object to which 
the building is devoted. 

In the Museum of the Conservatory of Music, is 
the death-mask of Chopin, and in the Museum of the 
Medical College, there is a large collection of casts 
taken from the heads of criminals^ — those in the Jar- 
din des Plantes are taken only from the heads of 
^'celebrated" criminals. I do not know that the 
heads of criminals are materially different from the 
heads of the righteous, nor do I care especially to 
look at them ; but certain it is that their contempla- 
tion will furnish food for thought. 

It would seem almost a natural proceeding for 
one to visit the Church of Saint Germain-l'Auxerrois 
in conjunction with the Louvre, as it was really a part 
of it in the days gone by, having once been the Parish 
Church of the Louvre. Imagine what a fine sight 
it must have been, when the king and the royal fam- 
ily, with its retainers and servitors, and its gor- 
geously-appareled ladies-in-waiting, would file out 
of the door of the Louvre facing the church, and 
come in to hear mass on Sunday mornings. 

Of the enormous palace of the Tuileries, of which 
no one can fail to think when looking at the Louvre, 
not one stone is left on top of another, — nothing is 
to be seen but the vast garden which now covers its 
site. 

The gardens are exquisite over head, the green of 
the beautiful trees spreading over one like a huge 
umbrella, but — the ground ! Poof! it is all gravel ! 
One must walk on gravel, — ^^the grass is off on a holi- 



2i6 PARIS 

day, and what little there is is denied man, as a 
promenade. However, one does not saunter through 
the Tuileries Gardens for grass, but to ponder a bit 
on what it once was, on its historical reminiscences. 

At intervals, through the tree-lined spaces, are to 
be seen some of the finest of modern sculpture, which, 
in conjunction with the green of the trees, and the 
sparkling of the fountains, makes one of the finest 
parks in the world — a beautiful picture, pleasing to 
the eye, so long as one can forget the gravel. 

There are plenty of chairs to be had, and one may 
sit and think, — just as long as he likes, — of the im- 
mense palace that is said to have brought bad luck 
to every one of its inhabitants. Read: 

Of the five kings to which the Tuileries gave shelter, — not count- 
ing the Second Empire, — only one went straightway to the tomb ; 
one went to the scaffold, and three others to exile. . . . With the 
court followers and the nobility of the last days of the monarchy 
it was the same thing; the Tuileries was but a temporary shelter. 
The scaffold accounted for many, and banishment engulfed others 
to forgetfulness. It was a commonplace at the time to repeat the 
warning: "O ! Tuileries! O! Tuileries! Mad indeed are those 
who enter thy walls, for like Louis XVI., Napoleon, Charles X., 
and Louis Philippe, you shall make your exit by another door!" 

A letter written on February 24th, 1848, gives an- 
other picture of the ill-fortune that marked the 
palace: 

Many houses have been entered in search for arms, but I cannot 
hear of pillage, except at the Tuileries. Here all the furniture 
was tossed out of the windows, the clothes paraded on sticks, the 
looking-glasses smashed, the portraits hacked with swords, and the 
carriages burned. The same scenes took place at the Palais Royal, 
which was set on fire. 

Report says the Opera was set on fire. All the Corps de Garde 
decidedly are there. I was startled by hearing two shots fired. 
. . . Upwards of five hundred Municipal Guards have been 



THE MAGIC CITY 217 

wounded, ... A mob with lighted torches has been parading the 
streets, forcing us all to light up our windows, under penalty of 
seeing them broken. 

The cannon discharged for fun by the people kept us in perpetual 
uncertainty . . . but it is horrible to think that this vast City is 
in the hands of an armed mob, drunk with excitement and with 
wine which they drank from the barrels in the royal cellar. . . . 

The shops are half open, and the itinerant venders of apples, 
potatoes, etc., are plying as usual. . . . There is hardly a tree left 
on the Boulevards, the Champs Elysees are devastated, the Palais 
Royal much injured by fire, the Tuileries gutted, the streets pulled 
up. 

O, Paris! One can sit here under your trees, 
watching the children at their games, and think of 
many things. 

I went to see where the wonderful Gobelin tapestry 
is made, for the sole purpose of being able to say 
that I had been there, but I had not been in the place 
long before I began to be glad that I had come : it 
proved to be intensely interesting. I had never cared 
especially for tapestry, but afterwards, I had a new 
feeling for it,-^that wonderful fabric for kings. 

The building looks as though it might be forty or 
fifty years old, but when one is told that this tapestry 
industry has been housed here for something over 
three hundred years, it begins to seem like a long 
time that it has been standing here — to an American, 
at least. The building looks so bright and cheerful, 
with jars and boxes of blooming flowers in the win- 
dows, that three hundred years seems an incredible 
age. 

Each workman must be an artist — no mere artisan 
is employed for none such could meet the require- 
ments. 



2i8 PARIS 

We spent a long time there, watching them weave 
the tapestry. The loom is hung up toward the wall, 
the warp stretched over the frame, the wrong side 
turned toward the operator. He sits before it, 
weaving the beautiful colors back and forth, while 
a mirror placed at one side, at a certain angle, en- 
ables him to see just what he is doing. At the other 
side is the picture that he is copying, which will not 
be seen until the whole is finished. A workman must 
be an artist: he could not copy a painting unless he 
were. 

I understand there are about 14,000 tones, em- 
bracing every known color or combination of colors, 
used in this work. I had no idea that there could be 
such a number of shades and colors and tones in the 
world. 

One operator, who was especially nice to us, took 
a great deal of trouble to explain to us how it was 
all done, and to show us some pieces of very beau- 
tiful work that were already finished. It takes such 
a long time to complete one piece of work that it is 
not strange that it has not become more common. 
However, "the work now done at the looms is not 
sold, but is reserved for State presents, and for the 
furnishing of palaces, etc. It consists for the most 
part of copies of famous pictures, wrought in wool 
by a handwork process demanding infinite skill and 
patience." 

In times long gone by, the Gobelin was a great 
establishment wherein were manufactured many 
things other than tapestry. For example : 



THE MAGIC CITY 219 

Here were manufactured the splendid services of plate, of costly 
inlaid cabinets, of carven frames, and of gilded couches. Here 
also were produced the storied hangings, with which the old hotel 
is identified; but the looms were never more merrily active than 
when the Sculptor's mallet and the hammer of the Smith were re- 
sounding under the same roof; when the Weaver wove his costly 
web to the tune of the Lapidary's file; whilst the saw and chisel 
made constant chorus in his ears. 

But there Is nothing now to remind us of all this 
bygone bustle and activity; we may only reconstruct 
it through the eyes of others. A Sunday air broods 
over the place now, and everything is quiet and ex- 
tremely orderly. 

After that visit I went again to the Louvre, to 
look at the tapestry, and at those wonderful crimson 
velvet curtains trimmed with bands of tapestry. I 
had a new understanding, therefore a new apprecia- 
tion, of this department of the art world. 

There are also some splendid tapestries at the 
Musee Galliera, — five tapestries representing Ger- 
vasius and Protasius, — ^which show forth the his- 
tory of these saints. It depicts their scourging, their 
execution, the removal of their relics, their appear- 
ance to Saint Ambrose, and the discovery of their 
relics. It is all there, plain as print. 

Then there are about a dozen or so other tapes- 
tries (Gobelin) copied from great paintings, repre- 
senting the months. 

Here is also to be seen the largest collection of 
crystal vases and various kinds of glass ware that 
I saw anywhere in Paris, — or anywhere, in fact. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

CHURCH OF THE SACRED HEART. BUTTES-CHAU- 
MONT. MONTMARTRE. PERE-LACHAISE 

Paris has an "Angels' Flight." I had supposed 
the only one in the world was in Los Angeles, away 
out in California; but here was Paris, rivaling us, 
with her little inclined-way, up to the Heights of 
Montmartre, a trip we took one brilliant afternoon 
to reach that wondrous, mosquelike Church of the 
Sacred Heart. 

One can see it, perched up there on its eerie, all 
white and gleaming, from nearly every point in Paris. 
It is the most dreamlike of anything in the whole 
City, standing there on the Hill of Martyrs, midway 
between the sites of two pagan temples of long 
ago, — a mixture of mysticism and art. Its appeal 
to the imagination is stronger from a distance, as 
it is still unfinished, and upon coming close to it, 
it loses much that appeals to one from afar. 

It is a magnificent building, with its dome 260 
feet high, and its clock tower 390 feet, shooting up 
into the blue of the sky above it. 

In the light of a brilliant moon its gleaming white- 
ness seems to shine with a silvery phosphorescence: 

220 



THE MAGIC CITY 221 

another Taj Mahal by moonlight, a Christian Basil- 
ica by daylight! 

There are little stalls built all about the church 
grounds, wherein are kept for sale all kinds of re- 
ligious ornaments — gayly-colored cards bearing pic- 
tures of the Virgin and of the various saints; tiny 
shrines and cribs; images made of metal; crucifixes 
made of some kind of brown beads, the figure of the 
Christ made of some kind of white material ; rosaries 
also made of brown beads, but of a larger size, — 
all sorts of similar things. 

I purchased something of every blessed thing for 
sale, — and then lost them all in a fire afterwards: 
Virgins, Saints, Images, — all went up in smoke ! 

We formed a party one evening, and went to the 
big gardenlike park called "Buttes-Chaumont," just 
to obtain that splendid view of the Sacre-Coeur by 
moonlight. It isn't exactly the size of the church, it 
isn't exactly the shape of the church, nor is it ex- 
actly the position of the church, that accounts for 
the extraordinary beauty and snowy radiance that 
seems to emanate from every angle of the building 
in the moonlight. Perhaps it is a combination of 
all, with a little imagination thrown in, — this great 
white harmony in stone. 

Standing in front of the church and looking off 
over the city, one has a view that could not be sur- 
passed (much more sensible, to my mind, than climb- 
ing all those horrible steps to the towers of Notre 
Dame) ; and all without the least fatigue. 

Out of a rolling sea of dull, somber, gray houses, 



222 PARIS 

rise gilded domes and towers, like sun-gilded icebergs 
in a gray ocean. Away off, the gilded domes of the 
beautiful Russian Church, of the Invalides, of the 
Pantheon, the Tour Saint-Jacques, the spires of 
Sainte Clotilde. It is beyond words to paint the pic- 
ture. Nor is the picture always the same; the view 
changes with the weather. Sometimes it is gray and 
dull, covered with gray mist; then, at other times 
it is brilliant with the golden hues of the sunshine. 

On the way up, it was so steep that, in one place, 
I insisted upon jumping out, — I could not find it in 
my heart to impose upon the poor old razor-backed 
horse, — but the coachman laughed at me. 

The streets are all of cobble-stones up here, — not 
of wood, as in the Champs Elysees, — and there are 
narrow-shouldered, slant-eyed old houses tucked 
away back in shallow old streets that I would not 
trust in the dark. I am told that there are fearful 
places in Montmartre ; but of this I have no knowl- 
edge. I only know that we turned sharp corners, 
and penetrated very narrow slits and passage-ways, 
and followed some very devious windings; but of 
any lurking evil I was utterly unconscious, and found 
the Quarter extremely interesting, and, in places, pic- 
turesque. But my companions said that I must not 
wander about alone in this locality. 

The Cemetery of Montmartre is filled with the 
remains of those who have helped to make Paris 
what it is to-day, — "A beacon light of intelligence 
held out to all the world." Here lies Emile Zola; 
Theophile Gautier; Halevy the composer; Henner 



THE MAGIC CITY 223 

the painter; Paul Delaroche, who painted the pic- 
ture that hypnotized me, and whom I cannot now in- 
terrogate; Berlioz the composer; Greuze, the painter 
of sweet girlish faces; Ary Scheffer; the beloved 
Heinrich Heine, with his face carved in stone above 
his grave. Heine was very much beloved by the 
Empress of Austria, and it seems that just before 
her death, as a last tribute to this, her favorite poet, 
she ordered this bust to be placed on his grave. 

It is a wonderful "City of the Dead." One in- 
stinctively feels that he should walk with gentle tread 
and speak softly. Those wonderful men ! 

It was just a little weird; but I sometimes imagined 
that I could very distinctly sense that subtle current 
of thought and sentiment created and loosed into 
space by the minds of the great men whose bodies 
were lying here, — ^^the scientists, the poets, the philos- 
ophers, and the musicians and composers. Their in- 
fluence lives on and on, while that of ordinary mor- 
tals seems to be quite dead. These men are not 
dead, — only resting here for a time. 

Here is also a small, modest grave, which is said 
to be the grave of the real Dame aux Camellias. It 
is always decorated with flowers, and I was told by 
a French lady in Paris that it is the descendants of 
Dumas that keep the grave covered with the beau- 
tiful flowers. But who knows if this be true? It is 
a pretty thought, anyway, and we will believe the 
story, — so long as we remain in Paris. 

I stood long beside the last resting-place of Theo- 



224 PARIS 

phile Gautler, the wonderful poet-man who said, in 
his "Romance of a Mummy": 

The poet and the musician know all things; the gods reveal 
secrets to them, and they express in their rhythms that which the 
thought scarcely grasps, and which the tongue is powerless to utter. 

On many of the graves were great wreaths of 
flowers and foliage made of colored glass beads, 
hung up in company with bunches and garlands of 
real flowers. I marveled at them. They are not so 
pretty; but perhaps compensation is to be sought on 
the ground of their durability. 

I went to the great cemetery of Pere-Lachaise for 
the sole purpose of looking upon the last resting- 
place of Rachel, of Alfred de Musset (one of my 
own personal gods), and the tomb of the ill-starred 
lovers, Abelard and Helo'ise. But upon arriving at 
the monumental city of the dead, with its long, 
cypress-bordered avenues radiating in many direc- 
tions, I was confronted by the tombs of an un- 
dreamed-of number of the immortals: Rossini 
(whose body is now in Florence), Alfred de Musset, 
Paul Baudry; Fehx Faure, Auber; Rachel, Rosa 
Bonheur; Raspail; Chopin, Cherubini; Gretry, 
Thiers; Daubigny, Corot; Moliere (or, at least, his 
supposed remains) ; Alphonse Daudet; Hahnemann, 
the founder of homeopathy; Balzac; Michelet, the 
historian; and so on. What wonderful inhabitants 
contains this silent city ! 

They say a path has been worn to the graves of 
the renowned lovers, Abelard and Heloise, by tens 
of thousands of other sad-hearted loyers. There 



THE MAGIC CITY 225 

they lie, side by side, their carved faces turned ever- 
lastingly to the canopy above them, and sympathy 
for their ill-starred love is still strong in all hearts. 
The story of their love is a peculiar one, to my mind, 
and I have never felt that Abelard did quite the 
right thing by Heloise. Thus runs the romance, as 
told by T. Okey, in writing of William of Cham- 
peaux: 

"The fame of the teacher drew multitudes of 
young men from the provinces to Paris among whom 
there came, about 11 00, Peter Abelard, scion of a 
noble family of Nantes. 

"By his wit, erudition and dialectical subtlety he 
soon eclipsed his master's fame and was appointed 
to a chair of philosophy in the school of Notre 
Dame. 

"William of Champeaux, jealous of his young 
rival, compassed his dismissal, and after teaching for 
;a while at Melun, Abelard returned to Paris and 
^opened a school on Mont Saint Genevieve, whither 
(Crowds of students followed him. So great was the 
fame of this brilliant lecturer and daring thinker 
that his school was filled with eager listeners from 
all countries of Europe, even from Rome herself. 

"Abelard was proud and ambitious, and the high- 
est prizes of an ecclesiastical and scholastic career 
seemed within his grasp. 

"But Fulbert, canon of Notre Dame, had a niece, 
accomplished and passing fair, Heloise by name, who 
was an enthusiastic admirer of the great teacher. 



226 PARIS 

"It was proposed that Abelard should enter the 
canon's house as her tutor, and Fulbert's avarice 
made the proposition an acceptable one. Abelard, 
like Arnault Daniel, was a good craftsman in his 
mother tongue, a facile master of versi d'amore, 
which he would sing with a voice wondrously sweet 
and supple. 

"Now Abelard was thirty-eight years of age: 
Heloi'se seventeen. ^Love is quickly caught in gentle 
heart,' and Minerva was not the only goddess who 
presided over their meetings. 

"For a time Fulbert was blind, but scandal cleared 
his eyes, and Abelard was expelled from the house. 
Heloi'se followed and took refuge with her lover's 
sister in Brittany, where a child. Astrolabe, was born. 
Peacemakers soon intervened and a secret marriage 
was arranged, which took place early one morning 
at Paris, Fulbert being present. 

"But the lovers continued to meet; scandal was 
again busy, and Fulbert published the marriage. 
Heloise, that the master's advancement in the church 
might not be marred, gave the lie to her uncle and 
fled to the nuns of Argenteuil. Fulbert now plotted 
a dastardly revenge. 

"By his orders, Abelard was surprised in his bed, 
and the mutilation which, according to Eusebius, 
Origen performed on himself, was violently inflicted 
on the great teacher. 

"All ecclesiastical preferment was thus rendered 
canonically impossible. Abelard became the talk of 
Paris, and in bitter humiliation retired to the Abbey 



THE MAGIC CITY 227 

of St. Denis. Before he made his vows, however, 
he required of HeloTse that she should take the veil. 
The heartbroken creature reproached him for his 
disloyalty, and repeating the lines which Lucan puts 
into the mouth of Cornelia weeping for Pompey's 
death, burst into tears and consented to take the 
veil. . . . 

"The great master, although forbidden to open a 
school at St. Denis, was importuned by crowds of 
young men not to let his talents waste, and soon a 
country house near by was filled with so great a com- 
pany of scholars that food could not be found for 
them. 

"But enemies were vigilant and relentless, and he 
had shocked the timid by doubting the truth of the 
legend that Dionysius the Areopagite had come to 
France. 

"In 1 1 24 certain of Abelard's writings on the 
Trinity were condemned and he took refuge at No- 
gent-sur-Seine. . . . He retired to a hermitage of 
thatch and reeds, the famous Paraclete, but even 
there students flocked to him, and young nobles were 
glad to live on coarse bread and lie on straw, that 
they might taste of wisdom, the bread of the angels. 

"Again his enemies set upon him. He surrendered 
the Paraclete to Helo'ise and a small sisterhood, and 
accepted the abbotship of St. Gildes in his own Brit- 
tany. 

"A decade passed, and again he was seen in Paris. 
His enemies now determined to silence him. St. 
Bernard, the dictator of Christendom, denounced his 



228 PARIS 

writings. Abelard appealed for a hearing, and the 
two champions met In St. Stephen's Church at Sens 
before the king, the hierarchy and a brilliant and 
expectant audience. 

"Abelard, the ever-victorious knight-errant of dis- 
putation, stood forth, eager for the fray, but St. 
Bernard simply rose and read out seventeen proposi- 
tions from his opponent's works, which he declared 
to be heretical. Abelard In disgust left the lists, and 
was condemned unheard to perpetual silence. The 
Pope, to whom he appealed, confirmed the sentence, 
and the weary soldier of the mind, old and heart- 
broken, retired to Cluny. 

"He gave up the struggle, was reconciled to his 
opponents, and died absolved by the Pope near 
Chalons In 1142. His ashes were sent to Heloise, 
and twenty years later she was laid beside him at the 
Paraclete." 

The remains of the lovers were brought to Paris 
In 1 8 17 and placed where we may go and offer our 
sighs, along with the thousands of others who have 
also sighed over their unhappy love and maddening 
fate. 

One may also go and look at the spot whereon 
stood the cruel canon's house, at No. 10 Rue Chano- 
inesse, a small street on the He de la Cite, not far 
from Notre Dame; and Qual aux Fleurs, No. 9, tells 
where stood the house of the lovers, — not very far 
from the Morgue. 



THE MAGIC CITY 229 

In writing of these same ill-starred lovers, Hilaire 
Belloc says: 

He stands at the beginning of the intellectual life of Europe, 
with the troubled, deep, fiery eyes that frightened the community 
at St. Denis, looking down history as he looked down from the 
Paraclete, like a master silencing his fellows ... he is also the 
type of all the great revolutionaries that have come up the pro- 
vincial roads for these six centuries, to burn out their lives in 
Paris, and to inlay with the history of the City. I can never pass 
through the narrow streets at the north of Notre Dame without 
remembering him. He taught in the Close and disputed there; he 
met St. Bernard in the cloister; he was master of the early schools; 
he first led a crowd of students to the Hill of St. Genevieve and 
though the secession returned from it at that time, he may justly be 
appealed to as the founder of the University on the slope beyond 
the river. 

The 14th century, that gloried in St. Thomas and that knew 
the colleges, was ungrateful not to remember the death of this 
man, whom Peter the Venerable sheltered and absolved in the 
awful shadow of Cluny. For all these reasons it is a good thing 
that the romantic spirit of the early 19th century brought him and 
Heloise to lie in the same grave at Pere la Chaise. 

To those who see with an interior sense, a ramble 
through these quiet cemeteries will be filled with 
shadowy reflections. A new knowledge, a new feel- 
ing will be gained by a visit to these last resting places 
of the great ones of the earth, — some of the great- 
est souls of France. 

I do not believe that it is an exaggeration to say 
the French people show all the public recognition and 
appreciation of its famous sons that a people could 
show, as a people. France, as a nation, may kill 
some of them off, but, as a people, she will never 
fail to perpetuate their memories in stone, bronze, 
or marble. 

The respect shown to the dead In France Is very 



230 PARIS 

touching. Every hat is lifted in the presence of a 
funeral car. People stop and cross themselves, and 
murmur a little prayer for the departed soul, — a 
"God have mercy on their soul," — so that the pas- 
sage from home, or church, to the cemetery is along 
a highway literally lined with prayers and parting 
good wishes. 

One thing depressing about death in France is 
the habit of dressing young children in the habili- 
ments of mourning. It is horrible to be strolling 
along, and come suddenly face to face with a mother 
and perhaps several small children, all dressed in 
the deepest, most somber black, the little girls' frocks 
trimmed with crepe, black ribbons on their hair, 
crepe-trimmed hats (of very stylish mode, of 
course), and black gloves on their little hands. I 
have seen little children, not over seven or eight 
years of age, dressed in this fashion. 

For a real revel in the mournful, the sorrowful, — 
something that makes one weep without knowing ex- 
actly why, — let me recommend a little ramble 
through the quiet, tucked-away cemetery of Picpus, 
near the Place de la Nation, on the lonely road to 
Vincennes. 

I do not know why, but it seems so lonely and sad. 
Whether it is because, in one part of the cemetery, 
there are the headless bodies of over a thousand 
persons who perished during that part of the Revolu- 
tion called the "Reign of Terror," — ^those who were 
beheaded at the Barriere du Trone in 1794? — 
whether it is because this is the last resting place of 



THE MAGIC CITY 231 

so many of the old families (such as the Gramonts, 
the Montmorencys, the De Noalles, and others who 
helped to make French history, as well as our own 
good old friend, Lafayette), or, perhaps, the work- 
ings of the invisible, the influence of the thoughts 
of anguish and horror that these poor headless ones 
must have loosed into space when they were so 
cruelly separated from their bodies at that awful 
time. 

As an American, I experienced a mournful pleas- 
ure in contemplating this last resting-place of the 
magnificent Frenchman who had proven such a good 
friend to the revolutionaries in our own land. Grace 
to the dead! 

We come first, to the convent church of the nuns 
of Sacre-Coeur, which is surrounded by a quiet, se- 
cluded garden. Passing through that, we come to 
the little cemetery, in all of its loneliness. After 
contemplating the graves and remembering that 
dreadful time when these bodies were placed here, 
it is interesting to turn to fiction for a change of 
sentiment, and remember that it was over the walls 
of this convent garden that Jean Valjean leaped with 
Cosette, when he was being so desperately pursued 
by the police. As Victor Hugo tells us: 

"Valjean mentally measured the wall above which 
rattled the linden. It was eighteen feet high. . . . 
The wall was capped with a plain coping stone not 
leveled off. The difficulty was Cosette. She could 
not scale a wall if he were able. But, he did not 



232 PARIS 

dream of abandoning her. Yet to carry her was im* 
possible. All the man's strength was needed to lift 
him in that ascension. ■. . . He lacked a rope. 
. . . All extreme conditions have their lightening 
flashes to dazzle or enlighten. Valjean's desperate 
glance lighted on the lamps in Genrot Lane ; it was 
the old oil-lamp, suspended across the way, and had 
a rope coming down into the box, for the convenience 
of the lamplighter to lower it for trimming and filling 
and to hoist it up again. With the energy found for 
a mighty struggle, Valjean crossed the street at a 
bound, entered the alley, burst the catch of the little 
box with the point of his claspknife, and in another 
instant returned to his young companion, carrying 
the rope. 

"Meanwhile, the time, the place, the darkness, to- 
gether with her protector's odd movements to and 
fro began to disquiet Cosette. Any other child would 
have set up bawling long ago. She contented her- 
self with tugging at his coat skirt while they heard 
the tramp of the patrol approaching nearer and 
nearer. 

" 'I am afraid, father,' she whispered. 'What is 
that coming?' 

"'Hush! It is Mother Thenardierl' answered 
the unhappy man. She shivered. 

"Without haste, but not having to go over the 
work a second time, with steady, sharp precision, 
the more notable as Javert and his force might ar- 
rive at any moment, he took off his cravat, made a 
loop of it around Cosette's body under the armpits 



THE MAGIC CITY 233 

With care that it should not hurt her, made this fast 
to one end of the rope with a seaman's knot that 
would hold and yet could be quickly undone at need, 
and took the other end between his teeth. He pulled 
off his shoes and stockings which he tossed in a bundle 
over the wall and stood upon the iron guard. Thence 
he 'shinned' and elbowed himself up the angle with 
as much certainty and steadiness as though he had 
ladder rungs under his feet and in his grip. Half a 
minute had not flitted until he was on the wall sum- 
mit, on his knees. 

"Cosette watched him in a stupor, without a 
word. . , . Suddenly she heard his voice in a low 
tone: 

'' 'Come, set your back to the wall.' . . . She 
felt herself drawn up off the ground, but before she 
had time clearly to understand what was happening, 
she was on the wall. . . . Valjean could only see the 
ground beneath at a good depth. He had reached 
the incline of the roof, but not let go his hold of the 
wall crest, when a violent scuffling of feet announced 
the arrival of the soldiers and police. Javert's for- 
midable voice was heard, shouting: 

" 'Rummage the blind alley! . . . I warrant that 
he is in the alley!' 

"Valjean slid down the outhouse roof, while sus- 
taining Cosette, reached the tree and leaped to the 
ground. . . . Cosette had not breathed a sound. 

"The fugitives stood in a large garden of odd ap- 
pearance ; one of those dreary enclosures seemingly 
made to be looked on in winter or by night. Its 



234 PARIS 

form was oblong; an avenue of wall poplars was at 
the end ; in corners the shrubs were rather high, and 
in the central opening could be distinguished an iso- 
lated tree of some size ; the other trees were of fruit, 
but untrimmed and the branches crossing like large 
bushes . . . stone seats here and there seemed black 
with moss. The walks were edged by straight little 
evergreens of dark foliage. Grass had sprung up 
over half the paths and moss greenly carpeted the 
rest. . . . The back of the enclosure was lost in fog 
and night. . . . Nothing more wild and lonesome 
than this garden could be imagined. 

"There was no one about, which was explainable 
by the hour; but it did not seem the place for a ram- 
ble even at high noon. ... 

"The tumultuous uproar was heard of the patrol 
searching the alley and the streets, the bangs of the 
musket-butts on the stones, the clash of bayonets 
probing holes, Javert's appeals to the police he had 
posted. . . . 

"In a quarter of an hour this storm seemed blown 
over, but Valjean dared not breathe freely. . . . 
For that matter, the loneliness was so oddly calm, 
that this dreadful riot, though furious and so near, 
did not cast the shadow of troubling into it. The 
walls seemed built of stones that are deaf, told of in 
Holy Writ. 

"All of a sudden, amid this profound calm, a 
fresh sound arose; celestial, unutterable, it was as 
delightful as the other was horrible. It was a hymn 
issuing out of the shade, harmonious prayer in the 



THE MAGIC CITY 235 

night's dread silence; female voices, but composed of 
the maiden's pure tone and children's simple accent, 
not of this earth — such as children still hear and the 
aged begin to hear again. It came from the dark- 
ened building. As the demon's clamor faded away,' 
this seemed a choir of angels coming up through the 
shadows. 

"Cosette and the man fell on their knees. They 
did not know what it was or where they were. . . . 
The voices were the more strange as they did not 
seem to contravert the impression that the building 
was untenanted. It was like a ghostly song in a 
haunted mansion. The music was extinguished — 
nothing in the garden as nothing in the street. . . . 
The wind ^rustling a few dry leaves on the garden 
wall made a soft hissing of mournful tone. Poor 
Cosette did not speak. . . . The good man took off 
his overcoat to wrap her with it. . . . Leaving the 
ruin, he skirted the building wall to seek a better 
place. All the doors he met were fastened and all 
the windows were barred. 

''On passing the inside angle, he noticed that the 
windows were arched and showed some inner hght. 
Rising on tip-toe he peered within. All the windows 
belonged to a vast hall, paved with broad flags, pil- 
lars forming arcades, with a httle light, and masses 
of shadow. The light came from a night lamp in 
the corner. The hall seemed untenanted and nothing 
stirred. 

"But by dint of staring, he believed he beheld on 
the floor, something which appeared clad in a shroud, 



136 PARIS 

with a human shape. It was stretched flat on its 
breast. With the face on the stone slab, the arms 
thrown out like a cross, its stillness was of death. 

. . . The whole was bathed in that gloom which 
enhances the horror of feebly lighted rooms. 

"Though many a dread sight had passed his eyes, 
Valjean had never witnessed a thing so weird and 
freezing as this perplexing form, accomplishing none 
knew what mysterious act in that somber spot, and 
seen in the dead of night. . . . The time seemed 
long before there was a movement, and he suddenly 
felt overcome by inexpressible fright, and fled. He 
ran towards the shed without daring to turn round. 

. . . Where was he? Who would ever believe 
such a sepulcher in Paris? What was this appalling 
house? . . . Was it indeed a house on the street, 
with its regular number? Was it not a dream? He 
had need to finger its stones to convince himself ! 

"However, through the moody fit in which he 
sank, he had heard a singular sound in the gar- 
den ... it was such a musical tinkling as the cow- 
bells make of a summer night when kine are grazing. 
It made Valjean turn around. He looked out and 
saw that some one was in the garden. A being like 
a man was walking about among the glass bells over 
the melons. . . . He feared that Javert and his 
posse had perhaps not gone, but had left sentries 
on the lookout ... so he softly took up Cosette in 
his arms, as she slumbered, and carried her into the 
remotest nook in this lumber-house, behind a stack 
of disused furniture. From here he observed the 



THE MAGIC CITY 237 

movements of the man in the melon beds. It was 
odd that the tinkle of the bell accompanied all his 
attitude. . . . Why should a man be belled like a 
ram or a herd-mother? 

"He made straight for the man with the bell. 
... In his hand he had taken out the roll of coin 
from his waistcoat pocket. . . . He accosted him 
with the cry : 'A hundred francs for you !' 

"The man sprang up to an erect position and lifted 
his eyes. 

" 'A hundred francs to be earned,' resumed Val- 
jean, 'if you give me shelter for the night.' 
- "The moon fully lighted up his frightened face. 

"'Gad! it is you, Father Madeleine!' said the 
man. . . . 'Goodness of God! How came you here, 
Mayor Madeleine? . . . However did you get in 
here?' 

'* 'Who are you? And what kind of a house is 
that?' asked Valjean. 

" 'Well, this is a good joke !' said the other; 'I am 
the man whom you placed here, and this is the house 
you placed me in! Do you not recognize me?' 

" 'No. How am I to recognize you?' 

" 'Because you once saved my life,' was the re- 
ply. ... 

"Valjean started with surprise. 'Why, you are 
Fauchelevent,' said he. . . . 

" 'What is this bell at your knees?' 

" 'That is what they call a frightful warning, — 
so that they can shun me. . . . Why, d'ye see, there 
is a lot of ladies up at the house. ... It appears 



238 PARIS 

that a man is a dangerous creature to meet, so the 
tinkler warns them off. When I come along, they 
make off.' 

" 'What is that house?' 

" 'Why, hang it! you know very well!' 

" 'But I do not. . . . Answer me as though I 
knew nothing about it.' 

" 'Then, it is the Picpus Nunnery.' . . . 

" 'The Picpus Nunnery, eh?' he repeated to him- 
self." 

The foregoing brilliant description of Picpus 
Cemetery by Victor Hugo, in "Les Miserables," will 
give one an idea of the loneliness of the place, even 
though the sun might be brightly shining. Lafayette 
seems so much as though he belonged to America 
that it is difficult to realize that he was not an Ameri- 
can but a Frenchman. One realizes it, however, 
when he sees the lonely tomb here in Picpus. It is 
said that his coffin was lowered down into earth 
which had been brought from America. May he 
rest well ! 

No matter where one turns, there is always some- 
thing to recall that most mournful of all French 
Revolutions. Here, in this one spot, lie the poor, 
mutilated bodies of over a thousand persons. One 
hesitates to think of how many there are in other 
places. 

It would seem to me that the increased horrors of 
this Revolution were due more to the burning resent- 
ment that surged through the hearts of the people, — 



THE MAGIC CITY 239 

the common people, — at that special time, than to 
any other cause. Resentment against the great wealth 
of the few; resentment against royalty; resentment 
against anything and everything, — one sees always 
the signs of a ferocious resentment. A noted French 
author has said: 

Has an investigating magistrate the right to make use of his 
exceptional power in dealing with a prisoner, so long as he har- 
bors the least resentment against him? This might well apply to 
a Nation as well. But if a nation waited until no resentment was 
harbored, there would in all probability be no revolution. Re- 
sentment in sufficient quantity, and we have a revolution. Some 
one else has said, had there been no queen there would have been 
no revolution. 



CHAPTER XXV 

A SUNDAY JAUNT IN THE ENVIRONS. AN OLD-WORLD 
INN. MALMAISON 

When one mounts to a seat upon the roof of a 
train (a fast moving train, at that) he will find con- 
ditions quite different from those on the "hurricane 
deck" of a steam-tram or an omnibus. In Paris they 
have double-decked trains as well as trams. 

One Sunday morning I started out for a day's 
jaunt with "the family," — bent on one of those out- 
ings of which the French are so fond. Upon arriv- 
ing at the station and discovering these aerial seats, 
I at once suggested taking our positions up there. I 
was remonstrated with, and told that they would be 
very drafty and uncomfortable, but I insisted upon 
mounting in spite of all that could be said to dissuade 
me. 

The result was disastrous. The wind whistled and 
rattled around us, and went straight through us as 
though we had been cardboard; the cinders from the 
engine rained a perfect hailstorm of blackness, and 
we crossed the bridge over the Seine with a rattle 
and roar. 

However, we had a "view" whenever it was pos- 
sible for us to open our eyes wide enough to see it. 

240 



THE MAGIC CITY 241 

We passed through a tunnel that almost suffocated 
us. Tunnels are unpleasant enough when one is 
seated comfortably in a first-class compartment; but 
up on top ! On the outside of a fast-moving train ! 
It must be experienced before one can appreciate it. 
Of course, these double-decked trains do not make 
long runs — only short distances from the city. These 
dear, delightful people knew just exactly how un- 
comfortable we should all be, and yet they submitted 
to my caprice with so little demur. I experienced 
an extremely guilty feeling, but I had not had any 
idea of how it would be. 

The environs of Paris are extremely beautiful in 
certain directions. We traveled through a sweet, 
green, quiet country, forests, villas, villages and hills, 
alternating so quickly in their seeming flight, that it 
seemed scarcely any time until we had arrived at 
quaint, lovely Louveciennes, — a small village out 
some twelve or fifteen miles from Paris. 

A quiet, deep. Sabbath stillness seemed brooding 
over the whole landscape, and just as we saw the last 
of the two-storied train swing around a curve, the 
bells from the tower of the ancient-looking 13th cen- 
tury church began to peal. 

O bells ! bells! I believe men and women are bet- 
ter men and women when listening to the sound of 
bells. They are a real moral influence, — when musi- 
cal. 

Many other groups got off where we did, and we 
could see them scattering about, in different direc- 
tions. 



242 PARIS 

We started at once for our walk (I think it must 
have covered hundreds of miles, — at least, I felt 
as though it had) . There are many lovely villas in 
this locality, set back in beautiful gardens surrounded 
with sun-mellowed old stone walls, over which were 
clinging vines in the greatest profusion. 

Sometimes we would walk for a long distance be- 
tween rows of these gray walls, unable to see any- 
thing except straight in front, or behind us, as the 
walls would be too high to permit us to peep over. 
Of course, that is delightful for those on the inside, 
but rather dull for those outside, in the dusty road, 
who have to trudge along between rows of high gray 
walls. 

Over the walls, great rows of tall trees would 
sometimes offer shade to the pedestrian, and, once in 
a while, we could glimpse a beautiful garden, or a 
fountain, through some gateway that had been left 
open. 

From time to time we would meet parties of strol- 
lers doing the same thing as ourselves, — peeping in 
wherever we would find an opportunity. If environ- 
ment is anything, these must be very happy people 
who live in these beautiful country places. 

We walked and walked, Monsieur Frangais in- 
terested in everything we saw. My attention was 
again attracted to what a little it requires to render 
the French people extremely happy. He would see 
a leaf on an old stone wall, for instance; he would 
pick it up and look at it, turning it over and over, 
his wife and his mother-in-law as interested as was 



THE MAGIC CITY 243 

he, and they would talk about that leaf, or flower, 
or Insect, or whatever it was, for an hour. Each 
thing encountered was interesting, — nothing seemed 
to them dull or tame, and they were apparently al- 
ways so interested in hearing what I, their guest, 
might have to say about it. Upon the whole, I felt 
that I had indeed been fortunate to have fallen into 
the hands of these delightful people. For some un- 
accountable reason, they liked me, and out of a 
large number of persons, — very bright, intelligent 
persons, — in the pension, Mrs. Harmon and I were 
the only ones ever asked to join them in these out- 
ings. 

What a charming part of France lies outside of 
Paris! Miles of it! 

At noon, we found ourselves at a real old-world 
inn, with a square, walled-in garden, besprinkled with 
beds of flowers and graveled walks, while over the 
gray old walls were tossed, with no scant profusion, 
those lovely clinging vines so common In France. 
Several fine old trees were here in this lovely garden, 
casting their cool, green shadows over the snowy 
cloths of the tables spread so invitingly under them. 
Could anything be lovelier? 

We sat there for a very long time over the de- 
licious luncheon that was served to us, and talked 
just a little — lively conversation was not necessary, 
as we had that feeling for one another that permitted 
silence when we wished. We laid our hats off and 
cast them to one side, and Monsieur Fran9als smoked 
and smoked, 



244 PARIS 

Quite a number of people came in, generally in 
small parties. Everything was so quiet that we could 
hear the birds singing a block away, and the hum of 
the bees in the flowers all around us. 

Later on we resumed our saunterings, and I do 
not know how far we walked; but after wandering 
through seemingly endless woods, through miles of 
walls, and climbing numbers of hills, we came to 
Bougival, — another pretty little village filled with 
stately villas and a lovely old church with a tall bell- 
tower. 

But of all this, I saw not so much as I might other- 
wise have seen — I was thinking of the Widow 
Larouge. I saw her in every turn of the road, and 
I said to Monsieur Frangais: 

"This is where the Widow Larouge was mur- 
dered, was it not?" 

"No, no, my girl!" he answered; "here was the 
police station. She lived in La Jonchere ; here, look ! 
This little path leads to the village yonder, — that is 
La Jonchere." 

How these characters of fiction seem to live. 
Madame and Monsieur Frangais then talked of a 
number of these characters of romance as though 
they had been real personages. I could never think 
of Bougival without at the same time thinking of 
the Widow Larouge. How clever the murderer was ! 
He got off the train at Rueil and walked over to 
Bougival, then on down this very same, winding road, 
to La Jonchere. 

Just beyond La Jonchere is Malmaison, — another 



THE MAGIC CITY 245 

spot filled with a pathetic, sentimental interest. It 
was the home of Josephine after she was divorced 
from Napoleon. It is a country in which to write 
romance, undoubtedly. 

Here we sat down, under the shade of the trees, 
and rested for a long while. It seemed incredible 
that we were so near Paris. This was quite another 
world. Automobiles went flashing by with a roar; 
carriages by the hundred; pedestrians, too; every- 
body seemed to be out in the search for pleasure. 

After a while, we started on again, and soon came 
to Marly-le-Roi, once the home of royalty; but, as 
I had never known royalty, I was more interested to 
see the home of Victorien Sardou, than to see the 
"spot" whereon had once stood the Chateau of 
Louis XIV, which was destroyed, along with all the 
rest of it, in 1793. 

It would not, perhaps, be just to say that the liter- 
ary man does not receive his reward in these modern 
times. The home of the great dramatist would not 
bear out that conclusion, — a splendid place, the Villa 
Montmorency, crowning the summit of a small hill, 
guarded by a number of large sphinxes of pinkish 
stone, which keep their mysterious eyes turned ever- 
lastingly to inspect all who may wend their steps that 
way. Who knows? Perhaps these creatures of mys- 
tery are the ones who tell that great man such won- 
derful things ! All those strange things that sphinxes 
are supposed to know. 

The town is filled with beautiful villas and gardens 
and trees. Often we peeped through great black 



246 PARIS 

iron gates set In gray-stone walls, into lovely old 
gardens, — at strange-looking old houses, and thick 
rustling trees; but we seldom saw a human being. 
All seemed as if deserted. But off in the distance, 
in all directions, could be heard the honk-honk! of 
automobiles and the tooting of horns: the past and 
the present all mixed up together. 

By this time I was, as we say in America, "All in." 
We, therefore, sat down to rest beneath the shadows 
of the great trees and, if the truth is to be told, I 
must acknowledge that I laid my head down in the 
grass and went fast asleep. I must have slept an 
hour, at least, and my companions were too kind to 
disturb me, although the evening was fast coming 
on. Tired? It was the longest jaunt of which I had 
ever been guilty. 

From Marly-le-Roi we took the train for home, 
but I was almost too fatigued to notice what we 
passed on the way. Monsieur Frangais laughed at 
me, — said It had been only a few miles' jaunt, that 
even "Maman" was not tired; but I insisted that it 
had been hundreds. But, as Monsieur Frangais had 
said, the little mother-in-law was not the least bit 
tired, — and she was nearly half a century older 
than I ! 



CHAPTER XXVI 

VERSAILLES 

One day my American friends invited me to ac- 
company them on a visit to Versailles. We met at 
the Tuileries Gardens, and from there, went to the 
Gare des Invalides, where we took the electric tram. 

It was only about three-quarters of an hour's 
journey, and then we found ourselves in the Place 
d'Armes that stands before this vast visualized rec- 
ord of French history, — a record more graphic than 
would be possible by any stroke of pen or brush. 

I looked up at it in amazement, but my first feeling 
was one of disappointment at its not being even 
greater, in view of the figures that represented its 
cost. Perhaps if it had been standing up on end, 
instead of being spread out over such a vast terri- 
tory, I might have been enabled to appreciate its size 
more thoroughly, as an American has a keener ap- 
preciation and understanding of tall buildings, — 
"sky-scrapers,'' — than he has of those that lay low 
and spread out over acres of ground. I will admit 
that after I tried to "go through it," walk over 
its acres and acres of floor space, and catch a glimpse 
of its vast gardens, I formed different ideas as to 
its size. My first impression, however, was one of 

?47 



24B PARIS 

disappointment, because it didn't obscure the whole 
heaven. 

It would be an utter impossibility to "do" Ver- 
sailles in a single day. Many days would be neces- 
sary to enable one to catch even a fleeting glimpse of 
its vast domain. And this was only one of many 
visits which we made to this charming, quiet, ghost- 
haunted palace. 

Versailles fills such an immense space in the his- 
tory of France that to neglect to visit it is to neglect 
the opportunity to gain some understanding of the 
many facts and conditions that led to her political as 
well as to her artistic preeminence during the reign of 
Louis XIV, and to and including the reign of Louis 
XVI. For after the disappearance of the monarchy 
the history of Versailles seemed to lose its attrac- 
tion both politically and artistically, although at the 
present time the artist is beginning to come back to 
his own, and no matter where one turns, he sees the 
artist with his palette and easel. One day I saw a 
whole company of young girls at work, sketching a 
certain part of the palace, under the guidance of a 
professor or instructor. 

On my first visit, we stood there and gaped at 
the monster palace for a long time before we finally 
entered, to find that the interior of this vast group 
of buildings, designated by the name of Palace or. 
Chateau, seems to be even greater than the exterior 
would lead one to suppose. We walked, and walked, 
and walked, seemingly for miles, through vast apart- 
ments, through endless halls and corridors and pas- 



THE MAGIC CITY 249 

sages, up and down stairways, through the great 
ghost-haunted spaces of Versailles ! 

It is such a deserted, lonely-looking place. A 
habitation for ten thousand persons, and not a soul 
in it except the guardians. A stately, solemn silence 
pervades all these unoccupied apartments of the long- 
since departed, — a silence that strikes a chill to the 
heart, and one keeps thinking all the time of those 
who once dwelled in these beautiful rooms, where the 
sense of a great human past is still strongly felt. 
Every once in a while I could catch myself listening 
as it were : I might, perhaps, catch a faint echo of 
footsteps that fell here long ago; perhaps I might 
even catch a fleeting glimpse of some dim, shadowy 
figure, robed in its sumptuous gown of rustling silk, 
or cloth of gold, with faded flowers in its hair, flit- 
ting around some gray corner; might perhaps catch 
a dim, faint hum of voices, long silent, of some of 
those who once lived and intrigued here, in those 
days so long gone by. The spirit of tranquillity 
seemed brooding over all, and never a sigh or a sound 
came back to me. 

It is a great pleasure to allow oneself to drift away 
on a sea of speculation, and the silence of these great 
empty spaces is conducive to just that vague state 
of mind that allows one to indulge in the speculative 
and fanciful thoughts that seem to come surging 
through the brain at such times and under such con- 
ditions. 

The rooms which were especially devoted to the 
service of Marie Antoinette are most beautifully 



250 PARIS 

situated. They look directly upon the great gardens 
to the south, then to the Orangery, and finally, off 
on the horizon, to the deep, dark woods of Satory. 

There are still many lovely pieces of furniture in 
these rooms, but they have undoubtedly passed 
through many changes since the time of the ill- 
starred little Austrian archduchess, who became 
France's queen. 

Here are also the chambers of Louis XIV; and 
over his bed, which has been fenced around by a 
railing to keep away the profane, is a huge canopy 
of the usual crimson damask. 

This is the central point of the palace, and in some respects, the 
central point of the French Monarchy. All the affairs of the na- 
tion converged in this room . , . where he gave audience to Am- 
bassadors, and to the Pope's nuncio, and where he dined au petit 
convert, that is to say, alone, on a little square table in front of 
the central window. 

And it was in this room, too, that on September i, 
17 1 5, Louis XIV died, "in a bed that stood on the 
same spot as the one that we see to-day." It was 
just four days before his death that he had called for 
the little Dauphin, who, after his death, would be- 
come Louis XV, and said to him : 

"Do not follow the bad example that I have given 
you in the matter of war; I often entered upon it too 
lightly and continued it from vanity. Do not imitate 
me, but be pacific, and let your chief occupation be 
the relief of your subjects." 

Of course, the poor little prince cried, as did all 
the others who were there and heard it. 

The influence of Louis XIV is felt at every turn. 



THE MAGIC CITY 251 

just as is that of Marie Antoinette. Louis XVI is 
hardly thought of, and poor Louis XV is utterly lack- 
ing in influence. 

These rooms are said to be still very much as they 
were at the time of the death of Louis XIV, although 
not actually containing the exact pieces of furniture 
that were there at that time. However, we can form 
a very good idea, perhaps, of how the rooms really 
did look. 

Here, too, are the apartments of Madame de 
Maintenon, and of Madame du Barry; and one has 
the feeling all the time that they may come in sud- 
denly, and demand why we are there without an 
invitation. 

From the windows of the Salon at the corner of 
the Marble Court, Louis XV "watched the funeral 
procession of Madame de Pompadour disappearing 
along the Avenue de Paris, on April 16, 1764. It 
was nearly dark, and the weather was extremely 
bad; but the King stood bareheaded in the storm 
until the last torches of the procession had vanished. 
It has been recorded by eyewitnesses that his eyes 
were overflowing with tears, and he said to those 
who were with him : 'Alas ! I have lost one who has 
been my friend for twenty years, and this is the 
only mark of respect that I can pay her!' This 
sounds very different from the heartless words that 
many writers have ascribed to the King." 

There is one room which is 236 feet long and 33 
feet wide, — ^^the Gallery of Mirrors. One must have 
good eyes to be able to distinguish any one at the 



252 PARIS 

far end. This great hall opens on to the marvelous 
gardens, upon which we may feast our eyes through 
any one of the seventeen deep-set windows; and if 
one should not wish to be detected in the act of 
peeping out at persons upon whom he might wish 
to spy, he could turn his back to the great windows, 
and look instead into any one of the seventeen enor- 
mous mirrors that stand opposite each one of them, 
and in that way see all that might be transpiring. 
They are perfect spyglasses, and may, perhaps, have 
often been put to such purpose, in the days when 
the kings and their lords and ladies flitted through 
these gardens. 

The vaulted roof is covered with paintings and 
gildings, which greatly enhance the magnificence of 
the hall, which, in the time of Louis XIV, must have 
been beautiful beyond description. To quote : 

Two carpets of a light color from the Savonnerie covered the 
parquet floor, while the windows were furnished with curtains of 
white damask, embroidered with the King's monogram in gold. 
In the evening the mirrors reflected the candles of the fourteen 
crystal and silver chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. All the 
furniture was of enamel and chased silver — tables large and small, 
stools, cressets and girandoles, candelabra and chandeliers — and 
the numerous orange trees that stood along the marble walls were 
in marvelous tubs of chased silver. . . . This collection was the 
work of the most skillful silversmiths, but unhappily it was not 
long in existence, for the misfortunes of war obliged the King to 
send all these incomparable masterpieces to the Mint to be melted 
down. We can form some idea of them from the old pictures and 
tapestry in which some of them are depicted. The furniture that 
replaced them was made of gilded wood of delicate workmanship, 
but it also has disappeared. 

Close by is the beautiful room in which Marie 
Antoinette used to play cards ; and it is said that at 



THE MAGIC CITY 253 

times the stakes were enormous. The whole place 
is filled with phantoms, whose influence seems to be 
especially strong when we reach the apartments of 
Louis XVI and his ill-fated queen, throwing over all 
a sort of gentle melancholy. 

Those who are interested in the memories of the French Revo- 
lution will look with emotion upon the balcony of the King's room. 
On October 6, 1789, when the people of Paris invaded the Palace 
and crowded, with threats, and with some arms in their hands, into 
the Marble Court beneath the windows of the royal apartments, 
some of the courtiers were stationed here, with General Lafayette. 
The latter went to fetch the King, and showed him, on this bal- 
cony, to the people. Then, in her turn, the Queen was demanded 
by the populace, who were clamoring for her death. She appeared 
with her two children, but the crowd cried: "No children!" and 
with a gesture full of dignity and courage Marie Antoinette put 
her two children behind her, and turned to face the muskets that 
were pointed at her, certain that her last hour had come. Her 
courageous bearing impressed the insurgents, who, with one of 
those sudden changes characteristic of French crowds, always ready 
to respond to bravery, cried: "Vive le Roi ! Vive la Reine ! Let 
us take them to Paris!" Louis XVI was then obliged to promise 
to go off with his people at once. Preparations were hastily made, 
and a few hours afterwards the royal family, with the mob sur- 
rounding their carriages, went on their way to Paris along the 
avenue that is opposite to the Palace, to which they were fated 
never to return. 

All about these apartments is that vague, misty 
melancholy which life and tragedy ever distill. 

Then there are the beautiful halls named after the 
gods, — the Hall of Mars, of Mercury, of Diana, of 
Venus, of Abundance ; and a score more, besides the 
lovely chapel with its banisters and gallery railings 
of violet marble and gilt. There are acres of rooms, 
which even to glance at would require days and days; 
and over all, there are the beautiful bas-reliefs of 
angels, fleur-de-lis, paintings, marbles, and mosaics. 



254 PARIS 

I liked the paneled and begilded ceilings and the 
beautiful parquet floors as much as I did anything 
else in the great palace; also the rare pieces of 
furniture that still remain in place. The exquisite 
objects of art that used to stand in these apartments, 
as well as the sumptuous furniture, were all dispersed 
during the revolutionary sales, and we Americans 
stood there and "wondered" where it had gone to, 
and who had really purchased it. It is said that 
many of the most beautiful pieces are to be found 
in Germany, and even as far away as Russia. Many 
of the pictures removed from this palace are to be 
seen in the Louvre. 

We walked past miles of paintings, — huge battle- 
pieces, depicting history by means of the brush; in 
some instances, bringing back the dreadful past in 
most sanguinary tones. At length we came to a 
huge painting of our own George Washington. The 
artist and his small son took off their hats as they 
saluted the shade of Valley Forge, and the boy said : 

"He looks just as fine as the rest of them, — don't 
he. Pop?" 

The immense though harmonious lines of the 
great palace itself have been continued in the appar- 
ently endless gardens which were laid out by Le 
Notre, the greatest landscape gardener of his time. 

No mere words can adequately convey a correct 
idea of these gardens. There are miles and miles 
of gardens. Long avenues stretch out in many di- 
rections, lined with green trees, and at regular in- 
tervals, are hundreds of statues of white marble; 



THE MAGIC CITY 255 

there are fountains and ponds of many sizes and 
descriptions, and a beautiful canal filled with water 
that sparkles in the sun. But even though all is 
so charming, there is always that feehng of deser- 
tion and melancholy. Even the great crowds that 
swarm over the place on Sunday afternoons do not 
seem to be so joyous as those one meets in other 
places. They saunter along as though they, too, 
were expecting to meet some one from the long- 
distant past, who might step out from behind the 
trees and demand why they were taking such liberties 
in these gardens of the royal family. 

Some of the fountains are enormous, — large 
enough to accommodate a number of pleasure boats. 
Others are smaller. We sometimes went and sat 
beside the beautiful Fountain of Latone, watching 
the waters scintillating in the sunshine, and thinking 
a little of the past. 

Then there is the exquisite Fountain of the Pyra- 
mid, with its round foundation, the upper portions 
growing smaller and smaller as they near the sum- 
mit, like a pyramid, the clear, sparkling water run- 
ning in cascades over the whole, emptying itself into 
the large basin below. 

Our little company decided that the gardens were 
more enjoyable than the long walks through the 
vast interior of the palace, but at no time did it ever 
seem quite right for us to laugh or be openly hilari- 
ous. The footprints of the dead are too plainly to 
be seen to admit of anything but that quiet, subdued 



256 PARIS 

feeling that one generally experiences when in places 
made famous by the illustrious dead. 

We went out one Sunday to see the great foun- 
tains play, a performance to be witnessed only at cer- 
tain times, — one Sunday each month, I believe. 
However, we were more exasperated than enter- 
tained, for nearly every woman carried a parasol, 
and, to my amazement, did not once close it in order 
that persons behind might also enjoy the beautiful 
display of spurting, spraying waters. This vast field 
of dipping, swaying parasols of all shades and sizes 
obliterated the whole display, and we gave it up in 
despair, and went out to the Hotel des Reservoirs 
for afternoon tea. We concluded that if we might 
not see the display, we might as well go and console 
the inner man. 



CHAPTER XXVII 

THE TWO TRIANONS 

Upon another occasion, we went out to visit the 
two Trianons, and to revel a little in reminiscences of 
the past. The Petit Trianon is some little distance 
from the Grand Trianon, but every inch of the space 
is teeming with memories of the poor, ill-fated queen, 
Marie Antoinette. She is dead and gone, but her 
play-houses still stand, and we all go out and look 
at them, with curiosity in our eyes, but sympathy in 
our hearts. 

It was to please Madame de Maintenon that Louis 
XIV built the Grand Trianon, here on the spot where 
once stood the poor little village of Trianon; but to 
jne her influence is not compelling. It is always that 
of Marie Antionette that is felt, to the exclusion of 
all others. 

Louis was extremely fond of this beautiful little 
palace, and spent much of his time here. Saint Simon 
says : 

Nothing could be more magnificent than these evenings at Tri- 
anon. The flowers in every division of the flower-beds were 
changed every day, and I have seen the King and Court leave 
the garden on account of the excessive number of tuberoses, of 
which the scent made the air fragrant, but was so strong on ac- 
count of their numbers that no one could stay in the gardens, al- 

257 



258 PARIS 

though they were of vast size and were arranged in terraces on 
an arm of the canal. 

Great fetes were also held here ; but with the death 
of Louis the remarkable life of the Grand Trianon 
practically came to an end. The ghosts, however, 
are everywhere, even that of Napoleon. It was to 
this place that he came on the day he was divorced 
from Josephine, while she went on to Malmaison. 
"In the rooms where Napoleon worked, the rooms 
that he made for a while the center of the govern- 
ment of his Empire, how can we think of anybody 
but him?" 

No matter what the history be, however, one can- 
not fail to enjoy the great collection of beautiful fur- 
niture of that period; Empire clocks, sofas, chairs, 
pictures, make up a most beautiful collection. 

We enjoyed the Museum of Vehicles, which we 
found very interesting. Here are to be seen most 
gorgeously-painted carriages, which used to be taken 
out for use only upon state occasions, for great func- 
tions, etc. Here is the carriage used by Napoleon 
at his coronation, as well as that used by Charles 
X., at his coronation. Here are some wonderful 
sleighs with waving, beplumed and begilded trap- 
pings ; and some very pretty Sedan chairs. 

But, after looking at them all, and admiring the 
beautifully painted flowers and cupids which decorate 
the carriages, we concluded that after all, not a 
vehicle among them was to be compared for com- 
fort, with the commonest of our present-day car- 
riages. They all have stiff, leather springs, or rather 



THE MAGIC CITY 259 

straps upon which the body of the carnage rests, and 
it is not a difficult matter to conjure up the discom- 
fort of the persons riding in them over the roughly 
paved streets of that time. No ! We do not have 
such gorgeously painted vehicles now, but we have 
comfort to a degree that they never dreamed of. 
The matter of expense in keeping up these places 
must have been one of considerable proportion. 
Was it any wonder that a revolution developed under 
it all? 

The Petit Trianon is a most delightful little square 
chateau, but one forgets its beauty in thinking of the 
poor queen, and of where she ended her last days. 
This is quite different from the small room in the 
Temple! Pierre de Nolhac, the Director of the 
Versailles Museum, says: 

The interior of the chateau is still very much as it was when 
Marie Antionette occupied it. The staircase, whose walls are un- 
decorated except for some carving, has a banister of wrought iron 
in which, among the lyres and caducei, Marie Antoinette's cipher 
was placed. 

On the left side of the landing is a door leading to the rooms 
in the entresol and to the staircase of the second floor, where 
the rooms of the Queen's guests were situated. The door on the 
right leads to reception rooms. The antechamber is decorated with 
friezes by Natoire. The dining-room, which comes next in order 
and has friezes by Pater, is remarkable for its woodwork, on 
which are carved a number of branches laden with fruit, horns 
of plenty, and other symbols connected with the uses of the room. 
Here we see, in addition to the full length portraits of Louis XVI 
and Marie Antoinette, some pictures representing the latter danc- 
ing ballets with her brothers and sisters, the archdukes and arch- 
duchesses of Austria. The Empress Marie Therese sent these pic- 
tures to her daughter to remind her of her childhood. 

And so, we looked at them, trying to think of this 
queen as an Austrian, but she seems more French 



26o PARIS 

than Austrian, that is, in reading of her. But what- 
ever, and whoever she was, her influence is still most 
keenly felt in all these scenes. 

We walked to the far end of the park of the Petit 
Trianon, to look at the group of rustic houses that 
composed her "farm," — lovely little houses which 
give back their reflections from the clear waters of 
the small lake at their base. It is a sweet, quiet 
place, and one ceases to be surprised that the poor 
young queen liked to get away from the trying eti- | 
quette of the court to this cool, green, tranquil place. * 

No credence must be given to the numerous legends that are 
rife on the subject of the Kamlets, such as that which shows us 1 
the royal family playing at shepherds and shepherdesses and as- 1 
suming various rustic characters in order to live in the hamlet. 
This is a ridiculous fable. Marie Antoinette never played at keep- 
ing farm, and the King never disguised himself as a miller; but 
it is a sufficiently piquant sight to see them interesting themselves^ 
so intimately in agricultural labor, and seeking recreation and 
rest amid these rustic surroundings. The visitor to the Hamlet of 
Trianon must surely be deeply touched by such memories as these, 
and must wish these little houses to be carefully preserved. 

Those days were long ago. And now, in the silent, melancholy 
past, every step reminds us poignantly of the past; by these mo- 
tionless statues fair queens have walked; it was for them that the 
quivering water sang in the fountains; the golden leaves that fell 
from the autumn trees are strewed with memories. 

I liked the little town of Versailles as much as 
anything else. It has a beautiful church, with an 
ornate fagade, topped off by a small dome and cross. 

There are high old buildings, and shops with their 
chairs set hospitably out on the sidewalk, where we 
were pleased to sit and have tea after our long strolls 
through the park and palace. 

Then, too, we always enjoyed having luncheon at 



THE MAGIC CITY 261 

the Hotel des Reservoirs, said to have been a man- 
sion once owned by Madame de Pompadour. 

I should certainly advise any one wishing really 
to see the palace and park of Versailles, to go and 
stay for a week or so at one of these nice old hotels, 
and avoid the fatigue of the trip back to town after 
the visits and walks. A week is really not too much 
to devote to Versailles. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE HUMBERT AFFAIR 

A MONTH in America and a winter on the French 
Riviera, when, in May, I suddenly reappeared, with- 
out previous announcement! I was just in time for 
dinner that evening, and I was surprised at the pleas- 
ure with which I was received. Monsieur Frangais 
at once ordered white wine instead of the usual red, 
— and I know of no greater sign of pleasure in a 
French household than that. 

But, there were changes. Mrs. Harmon had long 
since returned to England, and there were several 
new faces. 

Everybody at the table talked of the differences 
then existing between the Roman Church and the 
Government; in fact, little else was talked of. I had 
brought back with me some letters of introduction 
to some people then living in Paris, but I was so in- 
terested in all this news that I feared to present 
them and run any chance of being invited out for 
dinner (introductions generally mean just so many 
dinners) , and I did not want to absent myself from 
a single dinner so long as these interesting discussions 
were in progress. 

There was much talk of the entire separation of 
262 



THE MAGIC CITY 263 

church and government ; of closing the convents and 
religious houses ; of forcing priests, monks and nuns, 
to leave their schools and convents, — I believe, in 
some instances, to leave the city, and even the coun- 
try. It was some trouble about asking permission 
of the government to run their schools, and so on, 
which, it seems, they were refusing to do. 

Such exciting conversation I Such arguments, pro 
and con I 

And so it went, night after night, but to this day 
I do not know which side the family espoused, — I 
only know that Madame Frangais always knelt and 
said a prayer when she would go to visit different 
churches with me. Monsieur Frangais was inscruta- 
ble ; so I have no idea of the side he took. 

There was also another matter of interest to the 
general public, over which the debates were prac- 
tically unlimited. A certain Madam Humbert was 
holding the center of the stage, — a wonderful woman 
of daring ingenuity, who had robbed and plundered 
people of vast sums of money, but had been snared 
at last. She was so clever that she deserved to es- 
cape. 

Madam Humbert was the daughter of a peasant, who married 
the dilettante son of an ex-minister of justice to secure the social 
position, and then invented a huge fortune left to her by a mythical 
American millionaire named Crawford, on which to borrow. 

Law suits were invented to tie the fortune up in litigation. The 
Humberts displayed the safe in which the millions were sealed, and 
manufactured Crawford heirs to take the case into the courts to 
keep up the deception. 

Meanwhile they borrowed and they borrowed, mainly on the 
strength of high interest rates, to be paid when the fortune was 
theirs. For twenty years they played on the usurious instincts of 



264 PARIS 

the rich, and when the safe was finally opened by Court decree, 
and was found to contain an old newspaper and a collar-button, 
the world wasted little sympathy on the Humberts' victims. 

If rich people were so greedy as to be dazzled by 
the tempting bait of high rates of interest, why 
should any one feel sorry for them, was the ques- 
tion; and each night the discussions were renewed. 
Every paper was filled with the Humbert news, but 
all the time I felt that it was too bad for such clever 
people to have to "cash in." Twenty years of wealth 
and luxury on a capital of an old newspaper and a 
collar-button! One lone collar-button! Could we 
beat it in America? 

The trouble brewing between the Church and the 
Government was almost lost sight of in the interest 
of the pubHc in this wonderful woman. It all read 
like a fairy tale. She had certainly been wide awake 
to the amount of good things that might be obtained 
in this world by very little striving. 



CHAPTER XXIX 

NOTRE DAME DE CONSOLATION. THE MUSEE DE 
CLUNY. FRENCH WOMEN. THE CHATEL^T 

One afternoon Miss Ahnrate and I were prowling 
about in the neighborhood of the Place d'lena, with 
no objective point in view, and walking along the Rue 
Jean-Goujon, we came to a small church, or rather 
chapel, Notre Dame de Consolation. 

We went up and opened the door, and, as we 
pushed it gently open, were greeted with a sound, — 
a peculiar sound, as of a company of people, away 
off somewhere, humming together. The sound of 
this musical intonation seemed to circle around and 
around the sanctuary, sometimes seeming to be in 
the great painted dome overhead, and sometimes 
seeming to come from the rear, then from the 
sides, — everywhere. It was several minutes before 
we located this music of desolation as coming from 
behind the high altar, with its great gilded Virgin in 
the foreground. It has a strange effect upon a 
stranger coming in for the first time, — one stands 
with mouth agape, marveling at, and trying to lo- 
cate this mournful music for the dead. 

This is a memorial chapel that has been erected 
on the site of the terrible charity bazaar fire in 

265 



266 PARIS 

1897, when more than a hundred persons were killed. 
And here, behind the high altar, kneeling nuns pray 
night and day, year in and year out, without ceasing, 
for the repose of their souls. One company of nuns 
prays a certain length of time, then another comes 
to relieve it, and so on. They are the nuns of the 
Adoration Perpetuelle, I believe. 

However, the effect is depressing; one lives the 
catastrophe all over each time he enters the chapel. 

In the dome, the beautiful faces there painted are 
the portraits of those who perished in the flames; 
and most beautifully appropriate, the picture repre- 
sents Christ receiving the victims into Paradise. 
Surely they deserve it! 

All along the sides,— that is, the walls of the 
ambulatory, — are marble tablets bearing the names 
of those whose life went out in the awful flames, and 
we spent a melancholy afternoon walking along and 
reading them. There are some very handsome 
sculptures, sacred urns, and ecclesiastical parapher- 
nalia, and upon one monument we read the name of 
the Duchesse d'Alengon. Poor Duchesse! 

I was told in Paris that it was the money of the 
Gould family that had made this memorial possible, 
that they contributed most of the funds for it. But 
of the truth of the matter I cannot be positive. 

One afternoon the young son of my American 
artist friends came over, gay as a dickey-bird, to ask 
me to go ''nosing" with him to the Musee de Cluny. 
A museum visited in company with a young boy is 
well worth the time spent, for he will see more in 



THE MAGIC CITY 267 

a minute than an older person will see in an hour. 

Everybody knows everything about Cluny, and one 
might well consider that the final word had been 
spoken concerning its great accumulation of art 
treasures and reminiscences, but every one does not 
know how Cluny appears to a boy. 

The place is filled with tapestries, gildings, ivories, 
bas-reliefs, and relics, but the collection that most 
strongly appealed to the American boy was that 
of the locksmiths' work: locks, knockers, knives, 
lanterns, and hunting utensils. Heaven defend us ! — 
he fairly beamed over it. There was an enormous 
corkscrew, which he pronounced a ''jewel !" He 
went about, from corkscrews to lanterns, — from 
knockers to knives — he didn't know which he wanted 
the most. 

It seems to me that Cluny is even richer than the 
Louvre in its collection of inlaid work, ivories, and 
tapestries. Here is a set of a half-dozen pieces of 
beautiful tapestry, showing forth the legend of The 
Lady and the Unicorn, which could not fail to give 
pleasure to those who enjoy this kingly fabric. But 
I cannot say that the boy enthused any over it. He 
preferred the bolts, and locks, and lanterns; and 
I must admit that as much of my attention was given 
to the exquisite building itself as to its treasures of 
art. I do not believe there is any more beautiful 
building in Paris than the Palace of Cluny. 

There are several rooms in it filled with collec- 
tions of pottery, — French and Italian Faience, 
Palissy, and specimens of Delia Robbia ware, the 



268 PARIS 

best of which is "The Martyrdom of Saint Catherine, 
in which angels are represented breaking the spokes ; 
of her instrument of torture." However, I do not 
care for these torture representations. 

We made a number of visits afterward, — just 
rambling about this lovely old building, looking at 
whatever happened to attract our attention at the 
moment; and, as Baedeker says that there are some- 
thing like eleven thousand objects to be seen, one can 
easily comprehend that several visits might be neces- 
sary to gain any idea of its treasures, and then some- 
thing might be overlooked. 

We liked to loiter in the old gardens and look at 
the beautiful gothic windows of the palace ; and used 
just to meander from place to place, looking at 
nothing especially and at everything generally. 

This is a very satisfactory way in which to visit 
these great museums that are so filled with things 
of large human interest, as, by our saunterings to 
and fro, we are enabled to breathe in the spirit of 
the place, as it were, and come finally to feel as 
though we know something of it. 

There are some extremely beautiful chimney- 
pieces to be seen, which are well worth a visit, in a 
number of the apartments. 

After our first visit I asked the boy what we 
should have for our refreshment, — where we should 
go, as there is no "ice-cream soda" in Paris; that is, 
not such as we have at home. I almost dropped 
when he said: 



THE MAGIC CITY 269 

'^Oh, by all means, let's go to the Ritz and have 
afternoon tea!" 

Afternoon tea at the Ritz for a boy of fifteen! 
Saints and angels defend us! One should never 
ask a child what he wishes to do unless he is pre- 
pared to censent, to my way of thinking, and so, — 
we called a carriage and went to the Hotel Ritz for 
tea. If he had said: "Punch and Judy," or "The 
Wax Works," I should not have been surprised. 
But, the Ritz, — for tea ! 

However, it was worth the visit. 

Long lines of carriages drove up, deposited beau- 
tifully-gowned women and wonderfully-mustached 
men, and drove on. 

The great salon was brilliant with lights, the lit- 
tle garden was filled — every table taken, — and all 
present were busily indulging in that agreeable Eng- 
lish social function of Afternoon Tea. The low hum 
of well-modulated voices was to be heard on all sides, 
and the atmosphere was redolent of that subtle some- 
thing produced by superb toilettes, good manners, 
and the genial tea-pot. 

We were seated at a table spread with snowy 
damask, and the tea was served in a glittering pot 
of silver, the tea-cups thin as egg-shells. 

One has to admit that these French women know 
how to wear their clothes; they have an art, — a trick 
of dress, — so subtle as to baffle any attempt at 
definition, which imparts an air of distinction, of 
"race," to all their movements. It is quite impossi- 
ble to tell just what it is; but it is there, and the 



270 PARIS 

effect IS, — well, French. One could scarcely say that 
personal magnetism would explain it. Michelet said 
a French woman's beauty was "made up of little 
things." Yes? But of just what do the "little things" 
consist? If one knew, there might be no further 
mystery, — the riddle would be solved. They have 
that peculiar air of "race" that has taken many cen- 
turies to produce, and a mere modern might have 
difficulty in trying to live up to them. 

I find a certain pleasure in losing myself in places 
like this, — of being alone among strangers, — where 
I can find my enjoyment in observing them. Here, 
all those graces and refinements and amenities that 
render social life such an agreeable pastime, have 
been highly developed, and give out a radiance that 
fairly illuminates any social function. And where 
can one observe his fellows to better advantage than 
in the public salons of a great hotel? The senti- 
ent observation of human beings is about as enjoy- 
able a pastime as one might find in the whole world, 
to those who really enjoy the great spectacle of hu- 
man life. It is truly an extremely pleasant way in 
which to extract information of our surroundings. 

There are always such numbers of interesting per- 
sons, — persons about whom it might be entertaining 
to theorize; persons about whom it might be impos- 
sible to make any prophecy; persons exhibiting a se- 
rene indifference to all about them; many in a more 
joyous mood; faces full of history, ancient and mod- 
ern, and all sorts and styles of persons, — there is so 
much in Paris to be learned about the lives of men. 



THE MAGIC CITY 271 

Who are these people, anyway? Persons they are 
that do not seem to belong to any time or place — a 
great kaleidoscopic assortment of extraordinarily 
well-dressed, well-mannered men and women I 

And there we sat, the boy and I, looking on at 
the show and sipping our tea. As I have said before, 
American children can learn a lot in foreign lands 
without ever opening a book. Imagine an Ohio 
school boy asking for afternoon tea at the Ritz, — 
one of the very fashionable hotels of Paris I I have 
always the feeling that he was abnormal, — ^that he 
should have asked for Punch and Judy at the Luxem- 
bourg Gardens, or the Wax Works at the Musee 
Grevin. 

Nevertheless, I sometimes feel that this trans- 
planting of children is not just exactly right. How- 
ever, I do not feel convinced about it. It may be all 
right while they are still children, but later on they 
grow away from the home country; the tie that binds 
them to its influences and its traditions is cut, and 
they find themselves out of their own element, and 
not exactly in sympathy with the country that may 
have been adopted, — a very deplorable condition, in 
many ways. But still, everything has its compensa- 
tion. 

This same boy it was who suggested one evening, 
that we go to see some Russian dancers who were 
then performing at the Theatre Chatelet. Of course, 
we went, and had a very enjoyable evening in watch- 
ing the evolutions of these wonderful dancers, which 



272 PARIS 

were of a character which could not fail to give de- 
light. 

The dancing in Russia must be quite different from 
that in any other country, judging by what one sees 
of its representatives. It is beautiful, spectacular, — 
a strange mixture of the oriental and the occidental : 
wild tossings of the arms and legs and strange pos- 
ings, accompanied by music wild and weird, sweet 
and soothing. The Slavonic temperament of these 
dancers readily lends itself to a complete abandon- 
ment in the intricate evolutions of these marvelous 
movements of agility and mysterious grace. 

People sat there, quite breathless sometimes, as 
if they feared a movement might destroy some evo- 
lution of the whirling, posing figures. They use such 
a lot of jewels, — whole strings of pearls, — in their 
make-up. 

Our boy then informed us (in the manner of a 
man about fifty years old) that he did not wish *'ta 
turn in" just then. So, we found seats in front of a 
cafe on the Boulevard des Italiens, had an ice, and 
sat there for a time, watching the crowds of people 
who seem to move on and on, in never-ending 
streams, under the brilliant night lights, to some des- 
tination of which no one knows. That boy always 
knew exactly what he wanted, and how to obtain it; 
which is much more than many older persons know. 
To know exactly what one wants, is more than half 
the battle. 

The lighting of the Chatelet seems to me very 
agreeable, as the light is let in through a great glass 



THE MAGIC CITY 273 

roof over the auditorium; there being no chandeliers 
at all, the effect is produced of a soft, subdued light, 
coming from some unseen source, and very material- 
ly enhances the beauty of the women in the audience. 
All look well in the soft light falling from above in 
such subdued tones. 



CHAPTER XXX 

WINDOW SHOPPING. KID GLOVES AND MOBS. THE 
CHURCH SCHOOLS AND THE GOVERNMENT 

One beautiful afternoon a Mrs. Monteith, a 
Scotch lady then living in the pension, asked me to 
go with her to see the shop windows in the Rue de la 
Paix, the Avenue de I'Opera, and under the arcades 
of the Rue de Rivoli, just to amuse ourselves looking 
at the lovely fripperies for sale in all these streets. 
Window shopping is generally an amusement to the 
majority of women, — certainly it is in a great beauti- 
ful city in some foreign land. 

In Paris the custom of devoting a small shop to 
the sale of certain articles only, furnishes miles of 
interesting shop-window displays. In America, 
where everything under the sun is to be found in one 
great store, under one roof, we have, perhaps, only 
a few blocks of brilliant shop displays. I will say 
this, however: America leads the world in shop- 
window displays. Paris cannot compare with us in 
that respect. 

Here is a wee shop, perhaps, wherein one finds 
gloves only; next door, we find handkerchiefs; then 
comes one devoted to collars and various kinds of 
neckware ; then comes a window filled with brass and 

274 



THE MAGIC CITY 275 

copper coffee machines, tea-pots, kettles, and the 
like; then, In the arcades of the Palais Royal Is an 
unlimited display of gimcracks and cheap jewelry of 
all kinds. One can spend hours In this very Inex- 
pensive diversion, If one enjoys It; and what woman 
does not? 

I notice that when jewelry Is Imitation, a sign Is 
displayed to that effect. I am told that government 
Inspectors keep close watch upon all shops that no 
false labels attract the unwary. 

Upon this occasion we left the Metropolitan Un- 
derground Railway at the Tuilerles, and crossing the 
Rue de RIvoli to the Rue des Pyramids, suddenly 
found ourselves in the midst of an immense con- 
course of people. We looked first one way, then the 
other. Being an American, I looked for a fire, but 
saw no smoke or anything to Indicate a conflagra- 
tion. There was no uproar, no excitement, but as 
I did not know what the trouble was, — what had 
happened to cause such a crowd to collect, — I felt a 
little nervous, and began to look about for an avenue 
of escape. 

Just then, two officers (gendarmes, I presume, — 
but of this I cannot be certain,) mounted on superb 
brown horses, charged straight into the crowd, — 
directly Into the mass of people quietly lined up sev- 
eral deep, along the sidewalks. I was terror-stricken 
and amazed at such an action, and surely enough I 
began to look for a way to creep out and make my 
escape from the crowd that Increased each moment. 
For some amazing reason, nobody was hurt. People 



276 PARIS 

simply dodged back and jumped out of the way, and 
the officers on the superb brown horses charged on, 
and circled down the street. 

Moral courage, bravery, courage of any sort, pifff 
All vanished! Not an ounce of courage remained, 
and I was frankly and undeniably terrified. The 
people in all the shops along the street were busily 
engaged in pulling down the heavy roll-shutters of 
iron that are nearly always to be seen over the win- 
dows of the shops in Paris. Still, no one seemed ex- 
cited, but all were talking, each with the other, in 
rather subdued tones, varied at intervals by those 
wonderful gestures of French design which these 
people seem to understand so well how to use to 
express those things which could not be expressed 
by word of mouth. In a few moments, those gen- 
darmes came galloping back, and then I wildly 
clutched at my frightened companion, and we both 
took to our heels and fled down the street at full 
speed, and never stopped until we plunged into the 
Avenue de I'Opera, and — another mob ! The con- 
flict, whatever It might be, began to assume a spec- 
tacular aspect to my frightened eyes, and I began 
to wonder just where the line of escape might lie. 

They were more vociferous here, though there 
were no demonstrations of an alarming character, 
except, that all the windows were being hastily cover- 
ed with the great gray iron shutters,— you could hear 
their roll and rumble all along the street. We were 
frightened almost out of our wits ; we looked wildly 
jn all directions for a fiacre; we did not know whether 



THE MAGIC CITY 277 

it was the beginning of another Reign of Terror or 
not. I had been allowing my mind to dwell upon 
those awful days for so long, that I presume it might 
be considered only a natural consequence that my 
mind should take that line of thought. Robespierre 
was dead, but I began to fear that barricades might 
be constructed over the streets before we could reacn 
home, and then what? 

In our fright and consternation, we turned again 
and fled, — down the Avenue de I'Opera, looking this 
way and that for a carriage. We were breathless 
wilh running and with that demoralizing sense of 
fear that sometimes overtakes the bravest when con- 
fronting a danger for which there seems to be no 
explanation, — not knowing what it was that was 
happening in so many places all at onbe, when, all 
of a sudden, we saw in a fine shop window, some 
white kid gloves on sale for thirty cents a pair! 
War, and rumors of war, — revolutions and Reigns 
of Terror, — barricades and mob rule, — all fled! 
What were they in comparison with a sale of white 
kid gloves at thirty cents a pair! We halted; they 
were just beginning to lower the great gray shutters, 
but, in we rushed, — to buy gloves ! 

It was not until after the gloves had been pur- 
chased, and we were awaiting our packages and 
change, that it occurred to us to ask about the dis- 
turbances. It was the matter of the edict of the 
Government against the Church Schools ! I make no 
comments — I tell only exactly what we saw. 

We then asked the clerk who had waited upon us, 



278 PARIS 

if he could not let us out the back way, so as to avoid 
the crowds on the Avenue de I'Opera. He very kind- 
ly opened a door at the back of the store-room, and 
we at once found ourselves — back in the Rue des 
Pyramids ! 

Fearing to meet the mob again, we rushed down- 
another short street, and found ourselves in the Rue 
Saint Roch, and in another moment confronted an- 
other mob — larger than either of the others ! How- 
ever, now that we knew what the trouble was, our 
fear was gone, and we entered the crowd and stood 
quietly with the rest of the people, waiting for I 
knew not whdt. I did not know what was going to 
happen, — I did not know what to expect. 

Across the street was the side entrance to the 
Church of Saint Roch, or to a convent connected 
with it (I am not sure about this) . However, there 
were three closed carriages standing at the foot of 
a flight of steps that led up to a closed door, which, 
after a few moments, opened, and out came five or 
six nuns, dressed in black dresses, black bonnets, and 
heavy black veils which completely covered their 
faces. They carried small black satchels, as though 
about to start upon a journey. With heads bowed, 
and veils closely drawn, they came down the steps. 

There was a sort of groan from the crowd (not a 
murmur, a groan) and every man took off his hat 
and dropped to his knees, as did also the women. 
We, too, dropped to our knees, though just why, we 
did not know, except that the others did so, and I 
have found that an outward conformity to the man- 



THE MAGIC CITY 279 

ners of those with whom we find ourselves asso- 
ciated gives a greater amount of safety and opportu- 
nity for observation than anything else. In a strange 
land I always do as others do. 

The nuns sort of nodded their heads in a depre- 
cating way, climbed into the carriages, the doors 
were shut to by a man standing near by, and in the 
utmost silence, they drove away. Where they went, 
I haven't the least idea. 

Scarcely a word was spoken, but men and women 
looked at one another, and in a few minutes there 
were no signs of the mass of people that had been 
congregated there. 

We looked at each other, then walked leisurely 
back to the Rue de Rivoli, and — ^plunged into the 
fourth mob of the afternoon! Each and every one 
was talking. We could understand enough to know 
that they were talking of the nuns that we had just 
seen leaving Saint Roch. 

We soon reached the Metropolitan, and in a very 
few moments were at home, relating our exciting ex- 
periences. Madame raised her eyebrows and 
shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing beyond a 
"Mon Dieu!" However, next morning, for the first 
time since I had been in the house, she went to early 
mass. As the author of "Les Miserables" says: 

We do not understand all we see, but we do not scorn. Con- 
verts offer a complex question: civilization condemns them, in- 
dividual freedom protects them. 

As a matter of fact, I know very little about this 
matter, but state such facts and circumstances as I 



i8o PARIS 

was able to observe and note at the time. "When 
one understands that France helps to maintain, not 
alone the Roman Church, but also the Protestant, 
the Jewish, as well as the Mohammedan (in Al- 
geria) one cannot fail to see that the Church prob- 
lem in France is not without considerable proportion. 
It has no State Church in the strict sense of the word, 
although, undoubtedly, the larger number of its in- 
habitants are members of the Church of Rome." 

The next afternoon we were prowling about in the 
Boulevard Saint Germain. Upon reaching the 
Boulevard Raspail, we halted. There were several 
men standing at the intersection of the two boule- 
vards, talking together, and along came two priests 
in their long black soutanes and little round plush 
hats. At once the men took off their hats in a re- 
spectful manner, and crowded up close around the 
priests. What they said, of course, I do not know; 
I only know that the men stood there on the side- 
walk, that the priests made the sign of the cross, and, 
after conversing for a moment, passed on, the men 
standing respectfully aside; and, until we turned an 
angle in the boulevard, we could see them walking 
quietly along, the men standing there, scarcely mov- 
ing, looking after them. Undoubtedly, the masses 
are still sincerely attached to the Catholic faith, — 
to the Church of Rome. 

The Church of Saint Roch seems always to loom 
up big in everything that happens in Paris. History 
seems to circle around it. 



THE MAGIC CITY 281 

Saint Roch played a sinister role during the Revolution. As the 
tumbrils containing the victims to be executed at the Place de la 
Concorde nearly always came from the prisons by way of the Rue 
Saint Honore, the steps and portico of Saint Roch were among 
the chief points at which the mob gathered to cast insults and 
filth on the unfortunate captives. A woman of the people stood 
in the portico of this church as the tumbril with Queen Marie 
Antoinette slowly passed (October 16, 1793), and spitting into her 
hand, cast the saliva on the queen: an incident that caused Marie 
Antoinette to lose for a moment her heroic demeanor of contempt. 
"This vile mob!" she exclaimed, turning her back on her in- 
sulter. 

It was also from the steps of this church that Na- 
poleon fired his "whiff of grapeshot," the marks of 
which are still to be seen on the pillars and front of 
the building, as all the guide books tell us. Here, 
too, we saw the little company of nuns leaving the 
sanctuary a few days ago. 

The music, too, at this church is especially fine, 
and the services accompanied by all the ecclesiastical 
magriificence at the command of Rome. In speaking 
of this, one writer says: "It seems that the con- 
gregation do not always refrain from applauding, as 
if in a concert-hall, any particularly fine rendering!" 

Sieverts-Drewett says : 

The writer remembers on one occasion being present at Saint 
Roch to hear a new mass by Gounod performed. It was a Sun- 
day evening, and the great composer himself conducted. After 
the performance — which was a grand one indeed — M. Gounod was 
led down the central aisle by a procession of priests and the choir, 
amid enthusiasm that could not be suppressed, and which, strangely 
enough, did not at the time seem out of place. 

I liked the manner of the choir service. The sing- 
ers stood around the great lectern in the chancel, 
instead of remaining in the stalls during the service, 



282 PARIS 

and this seemed in such complete harmony with the 
beautiful stained glass windows, the mysterious yel- 
lowish light flooding the great spaces, the candle- 
lighted side chapels and high altar, the statues gleam- 
ing white through the clouds of smoking incense, and 
the rich paintings, that one could not suppress a glow 
of pleasurable satisfaction. 

The grouping of the men and boys, in their picturesque costumes 
of red cassocks, white albs, and blue or red sashes, grouped around 
the lectern, gives the whole affair such a delightful old-world 
appearance that it is most refreshing, and the effect of the huge 
service-book, with its plain song notation up above the heads of 
the boys, takes one back hundreds of years. 

That is true, so long as we keep our eyes fixed 
upon the singers. But let the eyes wander for an 
instant, and we drop back into the present by the 
rustle of the magnificent dresses of the present-day 
worshipers. 



CHAPTER XXXI 

FRENCH HOSPITALITY. CHATOU 

All of a sudden my prowls and rambles took on 
quite another character; my life was tossed into an- 
other current; my environment was changed, and my 
temperament began to vibrate to an entirely new set 
of instruments. 

One afternoon I took a carriage and went away 
out into the suburbs to present a letter of introduc- 
tion, which had been given to me by a relative during 
my late visit to America. 

We went out a very long distance, passing the 
barriers, out into the Rue de Paris to Charenton. 
The street running along the Bois de Vincennes was 
beautiful, the magnificent trees casting long black 
shadows over the roadway. 

At last, in a small shadowy thoroughfare just off 
the Rue de Paris, I found the place I was seeking, — 
a gray stone house, two stories high, with a sloping 
roof, the windows heavily outlined in a lighter col- 
ored stone ; an old stone wall, covered with creeping 
vines, behind which was a trimmed hedge of green, 
surrounded the garden of the house; a black iron 
gate tipped with gilded arrows stood in the wall, 
directly opposite to the front entrance of the house, 

2i33 



284 PARIS 

and through which one might peep into the garden 
which he might not enter. 

It was a quiet home, in a street of homes; there 
were no shops in sight; there was no poverty in sight; 
all seemed as serene as the summer day. Great trees 
could be seen at the rear of all the houses in the 
vicinity; high walls and iron gates in front of them. 

The coachman climbed down from his high seat 
and went to the black iron gate, with its gilded ar- 
rows, and rang a bell, which I should never have 
discovered had I been alone. At my exclamation of 
surprise at the idea of ringing a bell at the gateway, 
he was so amused that he rang it again; and I sat 
still to see what would happen next. 

In just a moment a maid dressed in a black frock, 
a white apron, and a gay cap perched on her smooth 
blond hair (this French girl was a blond of the purest 
type), came running from the back of the house to 
open the gate, two rows of very white teeth and a 
series of most animated gestures demonstrating how 
welcome a visitor, perhaps, might be. I at once 
gauged the mistress by the maid. 

I told my coachman to wait, that I would return 
in a few minutes. The maid led the way into a 
rather large hallway, then into a long, stately room, 
with a number of huge mirrors, which had been 
built into the walls, extending the entire height of 
the room, — then disappeared with my letter and 
card. 

In a very few moments, my hostess came in. She 
had never seen me in her life, but she threw her 



THE MAGIC CITY 285 

arms around me and kissed me, first on one cheek, 
then the other. Had I been some dear friend, it 
does not seem possible that she could have exhibited 
more pleasure at my arrival. She called to her hus- 
band, and, for just a second, I thought he was 
going to repeat the operation. Two kindly people, 
delightful to meet and know. 

Go back to Paris in that carriage waiting out in 

front of the garden? Never! Monsieur O 

threw up his hands, rolled his blue eyes, and with a 
wave of his hand, dismissed the whole subject. They 
at once ordered wine to be served, with a curious 
kind of sweet cake, entirely different from any I had 
yet encountered, and some fruit. After a while, in 
spite of protestations, I began to feel as though I 
should follow the advice of Mrs. Ruggles, and say, 
"I guess I better be a-goin'," but they stopped me 
at once, said that I should not go, that I was going 
to remain with them ! Not a word would they listen 
to ; not a remonstrance could I make that they would 
heed. They dismissed the waiting coachman, and 
after a while, the three of us were whizzing along 
in a gasoline carriage, on the road to Paris. They 
returned with me to the Pension Frangais, and re- 
mained until I had packed up all my goods. 

For three months I remained with my charming 
host and hostess in that lovely old house with its 
square, walled-in garden and old-world atmosphere. 

My kind host and hostess at the Pension made me 
promise that I would return to them at the con- 
clusion of my visit, but alas ! before another month 



286 PARIS 

had passed, they sold it and moved to Chatou, a 
beautiful little riverside town about half an hour 
by train from Paris. The guests scattered in all di- 
rections, and not one of those blessed people have I 
ever seen since, with the exception of the family it- 
self. 

Of all the places near Paris, I believe I liked this 
dear little town the best — perhaps because of asso- 
ciations; Chatou, to me, meant the family Frangais. 

Madame and Monsieur Frangais insisted, in terms 
of such affection, upon our visiting them in their 
new home that Miss Ahnrate and I gladly accepted 
the invitation for a week, later on in the summer. 

Their house was an old one, with a slanting roof 
and dormer windows with heavy hoods over the 
tops. The house sat even with the street line; in 
the rear, and at one side, was a large garden, sur- 
rounded by a wall at least eighteen to twenty feet 
high, which connected even with the house in front, 
forming a long street line. 

In this sweet old garden there were beds of flow- 
ers and tall trees, intersected by graveled walks. 
We took luncheon and dinner out of doors, under 
the trees. This secluded garden seemed a thousand 
miles from Paris; no noise of the city reached us 
here, and we would sit there under the trees, and 
read and visit and do fancywork, disturbed by no 
sound more distracting than that which came from 
rowing parties out on the river, which flowed along 
only a few yards from our doorway. 



THE MAGIC CITY 287 

This home of the Frangais family was really the 
most enjoyable dwelling-house I was ever in. It 
was unpretentious, but the feeling of "home'* was 
so strongly felt that all else seemed to be of slight 
importance. They were all so gay; in fact, all the 
happiness and sense of home of this household 
seemed to be due to the gayety which seems to be so 
strongly developed in the French character, and 
which is always so actively displayed. Even the wee 
poodle, shorn like a lion, seemed to enter into the 
home spirit that pervaded everything. 

The little "Maman" was so delighted to have us! 
She would sit with us in the garden and tell stories 
of her girlhood home in Alsace-Lorraine by the hour, 
to all of which I was glad to listen because she was 
a woman of great intelligence and understood so 
well the conditions and circumstances of which she 
spoke. 

Twice we went for a row upon the river in the 
soft evening light. Every one here owns a row- 
boat, and rowing is the real amusement of the towns- 
people, most of whom go into Paris for business, 
returning in the evening — nearly all of them being 
"Commuters." 

I believe most of the houses here have their own 
private gardens. A walled-in garden is one of the 
most delightful things in the world; one can go 
about just as he pleases, in a kimono or otherwise, 
and not a soul will ever know; no one can take you 
unawares, for the bell must announce a visitor be- 



288 PARIS 

fore he can gain admittance; and if one does not 
desire visitors, all he has to do is to keep still. 

It was with sadness that I said adieu to my kind 
host and hostess, and to lovely little Chatou. They 
are so far from America. 



CHAPTER XXXII 

LIFE IN A FRENCH HOME. CHURCH AFFAIRS. CHAR- 

ENTON. THE BOIS DE VINCENNES. 

CHOOSING A GOWN 

For several days after my advent into the agree- 
able household of Monsieur and Madam O , 

we just lounged about, chatting, reading a little, and 
eating often. Each had breakfast in his own room. 
We did not meet until after our savagery had been 
subdued, that is, along about eleven o'clock. 

The habit of having one's breakfast in his own 
room is a very sensible one, to my mind, as all of 
Tus are savages on first awaking in the morning; peo- 
ple ought never to meet until the late hours of morn- 
iing, when all are in an amiable frame of mind. 

In the rear garden was a pergola covered with 
thick vines, in the interior of which was a table, 
chairs, and a settee with an abundant supply of pil- 
lows. Here we had luncheon and dinner, and here 
we sat to read and work, and gossip. Monsieur 
would return from the city at about four o'clock 

each afternoon, when Madam O would serve 

hot coffee (no tea), varied sometimes by wine and 
cake. He would then relate the news of the day: 
all the little tittle-tattle of the city; bits of gossip in 

289 



290 PARIS 

the social world; theatrical news, scandal and poli- 
tics; smoke a cigar, and then would follow the 
daily ride in the machine. One day was a repetition 
of the other, but of their sameness I seemed never 
to tire. Change and excitement are not everything. 

These old walled-in gardens are delightful to the 
ones on the inside; nobody can see in from the out- 
side, and no one can enter unless he first rings the 
bell. The privacy is charming. The Grand Hotel 
and the pension on the Rue de Longchamps seemed 
ages removed from this quiet, old-world place on the 
outskirts of Paris! 

The French undoubtedly differ very materially 
from us in their social system and their entire stand- 
ard of living, and life in a French home is quite 
different from life in an American home. One is just 
as charming and delightful as the other, but in a 
different way. 

The French woman of ordinary means, such as 
my hostess, does not rummage around the market, 
pricing this and tasting that; she sends the cook. 
The cooks seem to do all the purchasing for the 
kitchen; the housewife goes only at intervals, — 
perhaps, just to keep track of the real current values 
of commodities. 

A French woman absolutely refuses to go into 
the street without gloves. But when you can buy 
them for thirty cents and have them cleaned for two 
cents, one can better understand that. 

Sometimes I would accompany my hostess to early 
mass (she was very devout) and on the way back, 



THE MAGIC CITY 291 

we would stop at a most delightful open-air mar- 
ket, where I purchased so many tags and ends of 
unheard-of things that I scarcely had room left for 
my clothes. 

Again referring to the church controversy: 

Madam O told me that the churches had never, 

in all their history, been so crowded as they now 
were — that every Catholic in France would sup- 
port the church as against the governmental edict; 
said that for years she had neglected the early 
mass, but, that now she would get up with the birds 
and go every morning. 

I know very little of these matters ; but I do know 
that on each occasion that I attended the church in 
Charenton, it was filled with the apparently devout. 
The market women would leave some one in charge 
of their stalls, and go into church, which, I was told, 
was something that most of them had failed to do 
before the beginning of the disturbance. 

There are beautiful walks all about Charenton. 
On one side there is the river, — the Seine; on the 
other there is the Bois de Vincennes, with its miles 
and miles of trees and roads and bypaths. Sad to 
say, however, at one end. of the town, is the insane 
asylum, which, during the time of the Reign of 
Terror, was a very grewsome place. At the other 
end are the fortifications. There are many attrac- 
tions from which to choose. 

Often we would take our lace work and go over 
to the Bois to sit under the trees and amuse our- 
selves by looking on at the innumerable wedding- 



292 PARIS 

parties that were invariably to be seen driving about 
the woods, — the bride with her wedding finery still 
on, her white veil tossed back from her face, a 
huge bouquet of flowers in her lap. Weddings gen- 
erally occurring at mass in the morning, the re- 
mainder of the day is spent in driving about the 
great parks, under the trees, and in eating and 
drinking at the restaurants and cafes that seem to 
abound everywhere. Sometimes, there would be as 
many as five or six carriages filled with the wedding 
party, all laughing and talking, and I would look 
at them all and indulge in speculations as to their 
probable cost; as I presume the bride's family pays 
for all the day's enjoyments. 
Miss Betham-Edwards says: 

Church ceremonials are very expensive affairs in France, wed- 
dings, like funerals, being charged for according to the style. 

Those of the first and second class entitle the procession to 
entry by the front door of cathedral or church, to more or less 
music by full orchestra, and to carpets laid down from porch to 
altar. Wedding parties of the third division go in by a side en- 
trance, and without music or carpet, traverse the aisle, the charges 
even so diminished being considerable. 

I must say that were I a French bride-elect, I should bargain 
for a wedding of the first class at any sacrifice. To have the 
portal of a cathedral thrown wide at the thrice-repeated knock of 
the beadle's staff, to hear the wedding march from ''Lohengrin" 
peeled from the great organ, to reach the altar preceded by that 
gorgeous figure in cocked hat, red sash, plush tights, pink silk 
stockings, and silver-buckled shoes, all the congregation a-titter 
with admiration — surely the intoxication of such a moment were 
unrivaled ! 

The strictest etiquette regulates every part of the proceedings. 
Accommodated with velvet arm-chairs, the bride's parents and re- 
lations are placed, according to degrees of consanguinity, immedi- 
ately behind her prie-dieu ; the bridegroom's family, arranged with 
similar punctiliousness, having seats on the other side of the 



THE MAGIC CITY 293 

Churches in France are not always decorated with palms and 
flowers as with ourselves. Any additional expense would indeed 
be the last straw breaking the camel's back, rendering weddings 
a veritable corvee. But the high altar blazes with tapers, and 
floral gifts, natural and in paper or wax, adorn the chapels of the 
Virgin or patron saint. 

So, I looked at all wedding parties with interest, 
but could not refrain from speculating a little on the 
probable cost of each one of them. The excessive 
cost of marriage in France does not seem to dampen 
the ardor of the people, however, for these wedding 
parties are to be seen every day, sometimes a large 
number of them. 

Occasionally we, too, would go into one of these 
small cafes in the Bois, and have our afternoon tea, 
or coffee, while keeping our eyes on some wedding 
party. Imagine ! I was told that until the age of 
sixty, a person must have his parents' consent to a 
marriage (if they be living), and if dead, he must 
show their certificate of death ! Again, — imagine it! 

At the edge of the Bois are the fortifications; and 
sometimes we would wander close enough to them to 
see the soldiers at drill, while from far off, through 
the quiet of the Bois, could be heard that strange, 
weird melody to which the soldiers of France per- 
form their evolutions. 

Across the Bois, on the far side, is the old chateau 
of Vincennes, which to-day is used as a military fort- 
ress. One may not inspect the interior, for strangers 
are rarely admitted, — most certainly not lone wom- 
en. 

This place, too, has its phantoms. Here it was 



294 PARIS 

that Charles IX., whose royal edict brought forth 
the bloody night of Saint Bartholomew in 1572, fell 
sick two years later. . . . Calling his surgeon, Am- 
broise Pare, to his side, he exclaimed: "My body 
burns with fever; I see the mangled Huguenots all 
about me ; Ploly Virgin, how they mock me ! I wish. 
Pare, I had spared them!' And thus he died, abhor- 
ring the mother who had counseled him to commit 
this horrible deed." One can well imagine that 
phantoms might walk behind these thick, somber- 
looking walls. 

I had a real affection for the Bois de Vincennes, 
though it was a very unfashionable place — the very 
antithesis of the Bois de Boulogne lying far away, 
on the opposite side of the City, so far as fashion- 
able life was concerned. So far as natural beauty is 
concerned, there is very little difference. There are 
several lovely lakes here, also, one of which covers 
over fifty acres, and in its center is an island, upon 
which is a cafe. Here we would all go sometimes 
and have coffee and watch the many boating parties, 
or have a row ourselves in the cool of the evening. 

I decided one day, that I wanted a new gown, and 

Monsieur as well as Madam O accompanied me 

to an establishment on the Boulevard Haussman. 
There were no shop windows, there was no display 
of any kind whatever whereby one might know that 
this was an establishment of any sort. It looked 
simply like an ordinary home of some person of 
ample means. 

We rang a bell, and the door was opened by the 



THE MAGIC CITY 295 

concierge. We then entered into a large court, and 
after passing through a doorway into a large hall- 
like room, we ascended to the second floor, where 
we found what we were looking for. 

A very magnificent woman, gowned in black, 
greeted us, and after I had explained what I desired, 
she asked us to be seated. This was in a large room, 
probably fifty feet long and very wide. Across the 
front portion was spread a brilliant red carpet. In 
a few minutes, a beautiful young woman came in, 
looking regal In the stunning gown she wore. She 
slowly paced across the floor, the train of the gown 
trailing over the red carpet. She was fair and had 
golden hair, — she was beautiful. She then, at a 
word from Madame, disappeared. 

In a few moments she returned, attired in an- 
other bewildering "creation" (that is what Madam 
called it), and again paced the floor. But I could 
not bear it — ^to see this beautiful young girl, so deli- 
cate looking, pace back and forth just for us to see 
how the gown looked. I felt that I would rather 
look at fashion plates on paper. O, Mr. But- 
terlck ! However, if we all felt so sympathetic about 
it, these poor girls might find themselves without em- 
ployment. They are called "mannequins," and I 
understand that they work in this way from nine in 
the morning till seven at night, and that their sala- 
ries are very small. However, I only state this from 
hearsay, as I do not know what they earn. 

I was also told that these girls are often decked 
out in most magnificent attire, and sent out to drive 



296 PARIS 

about in the Bois, so as to display the newest fash- 
ions. So, perhaps, some of the beautiful women 
whom I so much admire are mannequins, as none 
but beautiful women are selected for this work. 
Whether the "creation" will look so well upon the 
purchaser, depends altogether upon who the pur- 
chaser is. 

I found the prices of gowns reasonable. I had 
heard so much of the extravagant prices extorted 
from strangers, especially from my own country- 
women, that I was surprised to find them so reason- 
able, — in fact, the prices were much less than I 
should have had to pay in either New York or Chi- 
cago for the same gown. Perhaps it was because 
of my French companions? I do not know. 

In fact, I found many articles of clothing extremely 
cheap in Paris. Handmade lingerie was cheap; so 
were silk petticoats; so were hats and bonnets of 
all descriptions; so were gowns and wraps of 
all kinds. I am not surprised that women go shop- 
ping with such diligence in Paris; for there a very 
little money goes a long ways. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 

THE GRAND OPERA. LE THEATRE FRANgAIS 

At last! We were to go to the Grand Opera! 
I had been for nearly a year In Paris, and had as yet 
seen only its exterior. Not to mention it seems in- 
vidious; to mention it seems banal — all has been said 
of it that can be said, perhaps. ''One of the most 
animated polemics of modern criticism has raged 
around this work." 

We had seats just beyond the orchestra, — excel- 
lent seats; and I did nothing but gape: at the orches- 
tra, at the stage, at the audience. Society, spelled 
with a capital, was there — Americans, English, 
French,^ — throwing over the glorious place the ra- 
diance of its reflected scintillations. And, really, the 
pleasure of watching the people arrive, find their 
seats, and salute one another is not among the small- 
est of the attractions to a foreigner. It is all new 
and intensely interesting, the opera itself being the 
least attraction of all. 

Upon this occasion the opera was "Salambo." 
But all I could think of, was that poem by Owen 
Meredith, "Aux ItaHens." Of course, this is not the 
opera house of which he spoke, but the arrangement 

297 



298 PARIS 

of the boxes Is probably about the same. When I 
was passing through the "elocutionary fever," which 
most young girls pass through, it was this poem of 
Meredith's that excited all my most ardent endeav- 
ors, but every time I tried to recite, "She was sitting 
there, in a dim box over the stage," my eyes would 
waver; I was vaguely aware that something was 
wrong. I could not locate a "box over the stage," — 
for how could that be? We did not have them, 
consequently I could not conjure up the picture; so 
I would lose my point, and the recitation would fall 
flat. Not being clear myself, I could not make it 
clear to others. 

So there I sat for a time, looking at the tiers of 
boxes "over the stage." When the curtains are low- 
ered, the persons sitting there cannot see the audience 
at all. I located the "dim box" exactly, — ^but alas! — 
there is no longer any "call." However, it was a 
satisfaction to me to find the difficulty disposed of, 
and to know that there were boxes practically over 
the stage. The opera was well on its way before 
I finally recalled myself. 

I saw one thing that seemed strange to me, and 
even yet I am not positive about it, as the eyes play 
strange tricks sometimes. 

"The great ballets of the French stage are only 
less elaborate in structure and invention than the 
great operas and the great plays, and they are often 
infinitely more splendid in the mounting," says a cer- 
tain author; adding that "good taste may have for- 
saken the Tribune of Parliament and the Law 



THE MAGIC CITY 299 

Courts, but it Is still preserved as a living force on 
the stage." 

The ballet in this instance was undeniably all that 
any Frenchman could claim for it: It was superb ! It 
was led by a most wonderful danseuse, with the taw- 
niest hair I have ever seen. The opera itself was 
almost completely lost sight of in the magnificence of 
the ballet. 

After the usual evolutions, twistings, turnings and 
posings, the whole company parted and spread itself 
in a semicircle on each side of the stage. In a mo- 
ment, the great curtains at the back of the stage 
parted, very slowly, and there emerged an appari- 
tion — a magnificent creature, in a cloak or mantle of 
brocaded cloth of gold, bordered with fur or swans- 
down of the purest white, and tiny gilded slippers 
that barely peeped out the least bit as she slowly ad- 
vanced to the front of the stage, to low, soft music, 
her long train supported by four little cherubs of 
boys. 

When she reached the footlights, she very slowly 
and deliberately loosened the fastenings of her man- 
tle, two girls from the front end of the ballet assist- 
ing at the solemnities, and dropped It into the wait- 
ing arms of the cherubs. I nearly gasped! 

"The human form is divine," 'tis said; and to tear 
aside the curtains of the Holy of Holies and thrust 
"divinity" into the faces of mere mortals — into the 
waiting, expectant faces of an unprepared, unsuspect- 
ing audience, is, to say next to nothing, a wee bit 
disconcerting. 



300 PARIS 

Her form was faultless, without doubt; but even 
so, she might have left a little to our imagination. I 
timidly suggested,^ — but, no matter — every one 
knows about what I said. Not a bit of it! Indeed 
and indeed ! They, my friends, were almost on the 
verge of tears at the mere suggestion. "Horrible! 
Why should she — wear tights ? Mon Dieu ! Ridic- 
ulous! Why, it would mar" — and so on. 

A statue come to life, wheeling and circling about 
the stage on the tips of its toes, a bunch of glittering 
diamonds and a huge aigrette in its raven hair, a 
sparkling, gleaming "dog collar" of diamonds 
around its snowy neck, gilded slippers on its two 
little feet, a very small, non-concealing, bejeweled 
"Brunhilde" arrangement over its breasts, and a 
gorgeous bejeweled snake of a girdle around its 
waist, head and tail forming a long, drooping Egyp- 
tian-like pendant in front, would come closer to tell- 
ing the story of what made me nearly gasp than 
anything else possibly could. One did not think of 
this premiere danseuse as a human being; this was 
an animated statue from the Louvre. "Art" per- 
haps should not be hampered by any such small con- 
sideration as dress. 

Americans tell me that I was surely mistaken. My 
French friends speak as though disgusted that any- 
one should dream for a moment that that wonderful 
danseuse should be obliged to wear clothing. No 
matter ! The performance was most beautiful, and 
perhaps we Americans and our English cousins were 



THE MAGIC CITY 301 

the only ones who felt a little bit uncomfortable and 
unduly virtuous. 

As there was no music between the acts, we went 
out into that wonderful foyer, and promenaded with, 
I imagine, every one else in the house. 

We are so fond of saying, "Oh!" and "Ah!" but 
who could find it in his heart to censure a person 
who is looking upon that Arabian Night's Dream of 
a staircase for the first time? 

Mr. Hamerton says: 

It is full of dazzling light; it comes on the sight as a burst of 
brilliant and triumphant music on the ear. 

All has been said; nothing remains to be added ex- 
cept that it was all exactly as pictured, and I walked 
up both sides to be sure that I had seen it all. I 
wonder if its beauties ever become commonplace to 
those who constantly have the opportunity to view 
them. I went to the opera many times, but never 
once did I fail to enjoy this wonderful creation of 
stone, marble, gilding, and paintings. 

Monsieur P , a director of the Theatre Fran- 

gais, was a friend, who, with his family, was a con- 
stant visitor at the home of the family with whom I 
was staying; and, after the opera he joined us at the 
Cafe de Paris, not far from the Opera House. 

He was a man of rare talent and commanding abil- 
ity, but, with it all, was most kindly and suavely dip- 
lomatic, — never did he give offense nor take it. 
He greeted all sorts of remarks with a smiling face. 
He had eyes — such eyes ! and he rolled them about 



302 PARIS 

In a way that a man who might be trying to create 
an effect would not dare to do, and Hfted one shoul- 
der just a little higher than the other when emphatic. 
He discussed all questions with an ease and grace 
that put one at his best from the start. We sat there 
until the early hours of the morning, and the streets 
were still filled with people on pleasure bent. 

At the Theatre Frangais (which we visited as his 
guests, occupying his private stall) we had an unin- 
terrupted view of a very fashionable audience one 
Tuesday afternoon, which Is the day upon which all 
fashionable Paris pays its respects to this house of 
ancient traditions. I do not know why Tuesday es- 
pecially, but so it is. Perhaps for the same reason 
that with us a Saturday matinee Is more fashionable 
than a Wednesday matinee. 

I have not the slightest idea of what was played 
that first time; for I did not go to see the play, I 
went to see the people. There were great numbers 
of "the young person," each accompanied by father 
or mother, and in many Instances by both. All atten- 
tion semed to be centered In the young girls, and 
their amusement and entertainment seemed to be the 
most serious business in hand at the moment. It was 
a "matinee" audience; all seemed to be in a sort of 
holiday mood. Young people may not attend every 
theater in Paris, I understand, but at this theater 
they are always to be seen In numbers. It is safe. 

Le Theatre Frangais is one of the old theaters of 
Paris, filled with sentiment and reminiscences, as well 



THE MAGIC CITY 303 

as with more sentient objects, — statues, an Interest- 
ing museum devoted to things of the theatrical world. 
T. Okey says: 

To witness a premiere at the Frangais is an intellectual feast. 
The brilliant house; the pit and stalls filled with black-coated 
critics; the quick apprehension of the points and happy phrases; 
the universal and excited discussions between the acts; the atmos- 
phere of keen and alert intelligence pervading the whole assem- 
bly; the quaint survival of the time-honored "Overture" — three 
knocks on the boards — dating back to Roman times when the Pro- 
logus of the Comedy stepped forth and craved the attention of 
the audience by three raps of his wand; the chief actor's approach 
to the front of the stage after the play is ended to announce to 
Mesdames and Messieurs what in these days they have known 
for weeks before from the press, that "the piece we have had 
the honor of playing" is by such a one — all combine to make an 
indelible impression on the mind of the foreign spectator. 

Why is it that we seldom think of Moliere after 
leaving school until we get to Paris? Here he still 
lives. We are constantly confronted with things to 
remind us of the great dramatist; statues, monu- 
ments, and portraits are on every side. In the foyer 
of the Frangais is a portrait of Moliere, looking on 
at a group of buffoons, as if rather bored at their 
antics. However, these buffoons furnished all the 
comedy we had until he came along with his own 
particular style of mirth-producers — "Les Femmes 
Savantes," 'Xes Precieuses Ridicules," "Le Docteur 
Amoureux," ''Tartuffe," and so on. 

Here is also a statue of Voltaire, — Voltaire sit- 
ting in a big arm-chair, in a loose robe, death 
stamped on his charming old face, lighted up by the 
same half-kindly, half-cynical smile that he carried 
about with him all through his long, interesting life. 



304 PARIS 

That smile must have been buried with him, as 'tis 
said that he was smihng even in his coffin. I 
shouldn't wonder, if he saw his own funeral proces- 
sion that rainy day. 



CHAPTER XXXIV 

THE HUMBERT AUCTION. MILITARY MASS AT LES 
INVALIDES. MEUDON. ST. GERMAIN 

When there is going to be an auction in Paris, it 
is the custom to send invitations to numerous per- 
sons, who then go, several days, perhaps, before 
the auction is to take place, to look over the articles 
to be disposed of, — paintings, statuary, furniture, — 
and pick out those things which they might care to 
bid on, of all of which the authorities in charge make 
note. 

It seems that that wonderful woman of whom I 
have already spoken. Madam Humbert, had been 
quite a collector of paintings and other works of art. 
After her arrest, while she was still in prison await- 
ing sentence, her art treasures were all taken to a 
certain place, — a large mansion in a private street 
near her home, — and there disposed of at an auction 
sale. 

My friends received a card, and consequently 
one afternoon we went to view the spoils. A line of 
carriages extended for a block or more on either 
side of the street. The place was crowded with 
an extraordinarily well-dressed company of men and 
women — a real "society" event. 

We gave our card to a factotum at the entrance, 
305 



3o6 PARIS 

and at once found ourselves in a large salon, the 
walls lined with paintings as in an art gallery, peo- 
ple passing backwards and forwards, looking at 
this, scrutinizing that, making comments, and entries 
in their little books. 

After a while we all became unpleasantly cogni- 
zant of the fact that I was the attraction of nearly 
every eye in the place. People would pass close 
up to me, look me as nearly in the face as they dared, 
whisper, then pass on. They looked me over from 
head to foot. I knew my gown was all that it should 
be, but I did not know but that some catastrophe 
had taken place in the back, — ^that something had 
gone wrong. Anyway, we became most uncomfort- 
able. Later on, I told Monsieur O to step 

away from us, back into the crowd, and try to find 
out why I was attracting this absurd attention. 

The thing was incredible ! Word had been passed 
along that I, — I, — ^was Madam Humbert! Surely 
I must have borne a lively resemblance to that cele- 
brated lady! They had every reason to believe that 
she was in prison, and yet acted like that! Monsieur 
was told by a gentleman that people had believed 
that perhaps it had been possible for her to make 
some kind of an arrangement by which she might 
be permitted to leave prison long enough to super- 
intend the sale of these art treasures. People do 
not stop to reason — Madam Humbert was a middle- 
aged woman, and I was a young woman. 

Monsieur O came back in a few minutes, 

and said: 



THE MAGIC CITY 307 

"Let us speak English very strong." 

And In a few minutes all was over; the episode 
was closed; no one paid us any more attention. The 
clever woman is still "doing time," so far as I know. 

Going to church on Sunday morning in Paris Is 
"sight-seeing" as much as anything else a stranger 
can do. My friends insisted that I attend Military 
High Mass at the Church of the Invalides, which 
we all did, the result being my discomfiture, — my 
utter rout! 

At the elevation of the Host, the old soldiers beat 
their drums and present arms. Who could stand 
that? Not I! I wept gallons of tears. What for? 
I have no idea I It was not my flag that was dis- 
played; they were not my country's defenders who 
beat the drums and presented arms; but I wept, and 
wiped the powder from my face, as I always do at 
the sight of soldiers and at the sound of military 
music, — all except the Marseillaise. When I hear 
that I walk in a gallop and feel like shouting: "Off 
with his head!" 

At mass here one does not ponder on things di- 
vine; it is always of things Napoleonic. Napoleon 
here. Napoleon there — behind the altar, up In the 
roof — everywhere ! The war gods are all In evi- 
dence and claim nearly all of one's thought. 

As said before, French people are very fond of 
a day in the country. So one beautiful Sunday morn- 
ing, we, in company with eight or ten others, went 
to Meudon, — a lovely old forest not far from Paris. 
There were Monsieur le Directeur, his wife and two 



3o8 PARIS 

daughters, three or four other couples, besides sev- 
eral children. 

We went by steamer, which was crowded with 
picnickers, until there was not even standing room 
left. After landing, we walked for a long distance 
through the beautiful forest, until we came to a small 
inn, tucked away back among the trees. 

Under a pergola, at the back of the inn, were a 
number of tables with wooden benches either side. 

Each member of the party had brought a basket 
of luncheon. The proprietor of the inn laid a clean 
white cloth over one of the long tables; he furnished 
two enormous bowls of salad, the wine, the coffee, 
and all the silverware. It was amusing to me to 
watch these men mix and prepare the dressing for 
the salad. In France, the man of the house always 
mixes the salad dressing and serves the wine. They 
all exhibited an exuberance of life, discussing every 
imaginable subject with animation. They told 
stories, as we sat around the table, at which every 
one laughed heartily; they sang songs, and then 
varied the program by taking turns at the big swing 
suspended between two tall trees close by. 

After that, we walked and walked, occasionally 
meeting other parties of cheerful picnickers and 
swarms of children in their Sunday pinafores,-^all 
engaged in their efforts to enjoy the day, as we were 
doing. 

The roads of the forest are laid out almost as 
well as streets, — long, straight, well-kept, shadowy 
highways, under the deep shadows of lovely old 



THE MAGIC CITY 3^9 

trees, stretching out in all directions. As a diver- 
sion, from time to time we would sit down for a 
while under the trees, while the men would play 
ball with the children, some of the women joining 
in once in a while. The stately Director of the 
Theatre Frangais played ball like one of the boys. 

The French woman always seems to be the boon 
companion of her husband. They seem devoted to 
each other to an unusual degree. It seems almost 
impossible for a Frenchman to enjoy himself with- 
out the companionship of his wife and children, 
notwithstanding all that books may say to the con- 
trary. 

After strolling for some time, we came to a quaint, 
lovely old house. Monsieur le Directeur stopped 
at the wall to speak with a young man who was lean- 
ing there. This had been the home of the sym- 
pathetic historian, Michelet. A lovely old house it 
was, bathed in the glow of the solemn, beautiful 
green light that came streaming down through the 
rustling foliage of the great trees. 

Then we came to an Observatory; and, after a 
somewhat longer walk, to the home and studios of 
Rodin — a brick house with attached studios, set back 
in the midst of a lovely old garden. 

Meudon is one of the most beautiful places in the 
vicinity of Paris. Tall trees cast their green shadows 
over lovely paths, leading into dense cool retreats. 
Wild flowers and green grass carpets add to its 
charm. Only a few moments are required to pass 
from the noise of the busy streets of Paris, into the 



310 PARIS 

cool dim shadows of this immense old forest of 
Meudon that writers and painters love. These 
strolls and rambles through its shaded pathways are 
something not to be forgotten by those who love 
such scenes. Of all picnic experiences, there is none 
other quite like a cold luncheon in the Forest of 
Meudon, under the shade of the waving trees, with 
the Seine flowing placidly by. The tranquillity and 
the soothing wildness are features of which one could 
scarcely grow tired. 

On the return trip the steamers were so crowded 
that we were obliged to stand all the way, as were 
hundreds of others. But why complain, after hav- 
ing had such a beautiful day! 

Upon another occasion we motored out to Saint 
Germain-en-Laye, some ten or twelve miles from 
Paris, an old town which was once the home of 
Kings. The place is filled with things historical and 
of great human interest, but I admit candidly that 
none of these attracted me half as much as did the 
historical hotel and restaurant du Pavilion Henri 
IV. They say it has been visited perhaps by all the 
noted people of the world who have been to Paris, 
and I wanted to tread, if only for a few minutes, in 
the footsteps of the great. 

In the garden of the hotel (which is at one end 
of the wonderful Terrace) are tables and chairs; 
:>.nc] here it is that people go on Sunday afternoons 
^or a Clip of coffee, a view from the terrace, and a 
stroll through the forest of Saint Germain, which 
extends for five or six miles back of the town. 



THE MAGIC CITY 311 

The terrace itself, a beautiful roadway lined with 
rows of trees on one side, and an open view towards 
Paris on the other, extends for a mile and a half 
along the Seine at an elevation of about two hundred 
feet above the river. 

We sat at our table in the garden of the cafe for 
a long time, looking at the people, and off through 
the hazy distance, at Paris. The space between 
looked hke a rolling sea of mist, pierced here and 
there by gilded domes and pointed towers and 
steeples, — it did not resemble land at all. Row 
after row of roofs could be dimly seen, but they only 
added to the sense of a "sea," — a sea of houses and 
trees and haze. 

We walked along the terrace. Hundreds of peo- 
ple were promenading there, all stopping now and 
then to look at that misty dream, Paris, away off 
there on the bluish-gray horizon. 

This is a place that touches the affections, — the 
beautiful old town with its grim-looking old chateau 
and its beautiful old church. Such places appeal very 
strongly to certain natures. 

Upon numerous occasions we went to the Pavilion 
for coffee, and the Sunday-afternoon scene Is always 
the same — as though the promenaders had never left 
their places on the terrace. It is strange how ex- 
actly one crowd resembles another. 

The sovereigns of France have furnished some 
exceedingly pretty places for the Sunday excursion- 
ist to visit, if nothing more. Let us give Caesar his 
due. 



CHAPTER XXXV 

CAFE DU NEANT. OTHER CAFES 

A CAFE of quite another sort is the Cafe du Neant, 
to which we went one evening. It was located in a 
dark-looking building, the entrance (over which 
hung a green lantern) flush with the sidewalk. One 
can imagine the sort of light shed over the entrance 
way. 

A fellow dressed as a pall-bearer stands at one 
side of the door, and in mournful tones invites you 
to come in, but as I had no real knowledge of what 
was said (every word being sort of mumbled), I 
will use the splendid description given by W. C. 
Morrow in his "Bohemian Paris of To-day." I saw 
practically what he saw, but did not understand 
what was said, and this able description tells what 
was heard as well as what was seen: 

"As we neared the place [Place Pigalle], we saw 
on the opposite side of the street two flickering iron 
lanterns that threw a ghastly green light down upon 
the barred dead-black shutters of the building, and 
caught the faces of the passers-by with sickly rays 
that took out all the life and transformed them into 
the semblance of corpses. Across the top of the 

312 



THE MAGIC CITY 313 

closed black entrance were large white letters, read- 
ing simply: 'Cafe du Neant' 

"The entrance was heavily draped with black 
cerements, having white trimmings, — such as hang 
before the houses of the dead in Paris. 

"Here patroled a solitary croque mort, or hired 
pallbearer, his black cape drawn closely about him, 
the green light reflected by his glazed top-hat. A 
more dismal and forbidding place it would be diffi- 
cult to imagine. The lonely croque mort drew apart 
the heavy curtain and admitted us into a black hole 
that proved later to be a room. The chamber was 
dimly lighted with wax tapers and a large chandelier 
intricately devised of human skulls and arms, with 
funeral candles held in their fleshless fingers, gave its 
small quota of light. 

"Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, 
were ranged about the room in an order suggesting 
the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. The 
walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skele- 
tons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guil- 
lotines in action. Death, carnage, assassination were 
the dominant note, set in black hangings and illu- 
minated with mottoes on death. A half-dozen voices 
droned this in a low monotone : 

" 'Enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into 
the mists and shadows of eternity. Select your biers, 
to the right, to the left; fit yourselves comfortably 
to them, and repose in the solemnity and tranquillity 
of death; and may God have mercy on your souls !' 

"A number of persons who had preceded us had 



314 PARIS 

already preempted their coffins, and were sitting 
beside them awaiting developments and enjoying the 
consommations, using the coffins for their real pur- 
pose — tables for holding drinking glasses. Along- 
side the glasses were slender tapers by which the 
visitors might see one another. 

"There seemed to be no mechanical imperfection 
in the illusion of a charnel-house; we imagined that 
even chemistry had contributed its resources, for 
there seemed distinctly to be the odor appropriate 
to such a place. 

"We found a vacant coffin in the vault, seated 
ourselves at it on rush-bottomed stools, and awaited 
further developments. Another croque mort — a 
gargon he was — ^came up through the gloom to take 
our orders. He was dressed completely in the pro- 
fessional garb of a hearse-follower, including claw- 
hammer coat, full dress front, glazed tile, and oval 
silver badge. He droned- 



(( (' 



Bon soir, Macchabees!' (this word is given in 
Paris by sailors to cadavers found floating in the 
river) .... 'One microbe of Asiatic cholera from 
the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer, and one 
sample of our consumption germ I' moaned the crea- 
ture towards a black hole at the further end of the 
room. 

"Some women among the visitors tittered, others 
shuddered. Our sleepy pallbearer soon loomed 
through the darkness with our deadly microbes and 
waked the echoes in the hollow casket upon which 
he sat the glasses with a thump. 'Drink Maccha- 



THE MAGIC CITY 3^5 

bees!' he wailed; 'Drink these noxious potions, which 
contain the vilest and deadliest poisons !' 

"The tapers flickered feebly on the coffins, and 
the white skulls grinned . . . mockingly from their 
sable background. 

"After we had been seated here for some time, 
getting no consolation from the utter absence of 
spirit and levity among the other guests, and enjoy- 
ing only the dismay and trepidation of new and 
strange arrivals, a rather good-looking young fel- 
low, dressed in a black clerical coat, came through 
a dark door and began to address the assembled pa- 
trons. His voice was smooth, his manner solemn and 
impressive, as he delivered a well-worded discourse 
on death. He spoke of it as the gate through which 
we must all make our exit from this world — of the 
gloom, the loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness 
and desolation. As he wanned to his subject he en- 
larged upon the follies that hasten the advent of 
death, and spoke of the relentless certainty and the 
incredible variety of ways in which the reaper claims 
his victims. 

"Then he passed on to the terrors of actual dis- 
solution, the tortures of the body, the rending of 
the soul, the unimaginable agonies that sensibilities 
rendered acutely susceptible at this extremity are 
called upon to endure. It required good nerves to 
listen to that, for the man was perfect in his role. 

"From matters of individual interest in death, he 
passed to death in its larger aspects. He pointed 
to a large and striking battle scene, in which the 



3i6 PARIS 

combatants had come to hand-to-hand fighting, and 
were butchering one another in a mad kist for blood. 
Suddenly the picture began to glow, the light bring- 
ing out its ghastly details with hideous distinctness. 
Then as suddenly it faded away, and where fighting 
men had been, there were skeletons writhing and 
struggling in a deadly embrace. 

"A similar effect was produced with a painting 
giving a wonderfully realistic representation of an 
execution by guillotine. The bleeding trunk of the 
victim lying upon the flap-board dissolved^ the flesh 
slowing disappearing, leaving only the white bones. 

"Another picture, representing a brilliant dance- 
hall filled with happy revellers, slowly merged into 
a grotesque dance of skeletons ; and thus it was with 
other pictures about the room. 

"All of this being done, the Master of Cere- 
monies, in lugubrious tones, invited us to enter the 
Chambre de la Mort. All the visitors rose, and, 
bearing each a taper, passed in single file into a 
narrow, dark passage faintly illuminated with sickly 
green lights, the young man in clerical garb acting 
as pilot. The cross effects of green and yellow lights 
of the faces of the groping procession were more 
startling than picturesque. The way was lined with 
bones, skulls, and fragments of human bodies. . . . 

"Then before us appeared a solitary figure stand- 
ing beneath a green lamp. The figure was com- 
pletely shrouded in black, only the eyes being visible, 
and they shone through the holes In the pointed cowl. 
From the folds of the gown it brought forth a 



THE MAGIC CITY 31? 

massive iron key attached to a chain, and, approach- 
ing a door seemingly made of iron and heavily stud- 
ded with spikes and crossed with bars, inserted and 
turned the key; the bolts moved with a harsh, grat- 
ing noise, and the door of the Chamber of Death 
swung slowly open. 

" 'Oh, Macchabees, enter into eternity, whence 
none ever return!' cried the new, strange voice. 

"The walls of the room were a dead and unre- 
lieved black. At one side two tall candles were 
burning, but this feeble light was insufficient even 
to disclose the presence of the black walls of the 
chamber or indicate that anything but unending black- 
ness extended heavenward. There was not a thing 
to catch and reflect a single ray of the light and thus 
become visible in the darkness. 

"Between the two candles was an upright open- 
ing in the wall; it was in the shape of a coffin. We 
seated ourselves upon rows of small black caskets 
resting on the floor in front of the candles. There 
was hardly a whisper among the visitors. The 
black-hooded figure passed silently out of view and 
vanished in the darkness. 

"Presently a pale, greenish-white illumination be- 
gan to light up the coffin-shaped hole in the wall, 
clearly marking its outline against the black. Within 
this space there stood a coffin upright, in which a 
pretty young woman robed in a white shroud, fitted 
snugly. 

"Soon it was evident that she was very much alive, 
for she smiled and looked at us saucily. But that 



3i8 PARIS 

was not for long. From the depths came a dismal 
wail: 'Oh Macchabee, beautiful, breathing mortal, 
pulsating with the warmth and richness of life, thou 
art now in the grasp of death ! Compose thy soul 
for the end!' 

"Her face slowly became white and rigid; her eyes 
sank; her lips tightened across her teeth; her cheeks 
took on the hollowness of death — she was dead. 
But it did not end with that. From white the face 
slowly grew livid . . . then purplish black. . . . 
The eyes visibly shrank into their greenish-yellow 
sockets. . . . Slowly the hair fell away. . . . The 
nose melted away into a purple putrid spot. The 
whole face became a semi-liquid mass of corrup- 
tion. Presently all this had disappeared, and a gleam- 
ing skull shone where so recently had been the hand- 
some face of a woman; naked teeth grinned inanely 
and savagely where rosy lips had so recently smiled. 
Even the shroud had gradually disappeared, and 
an entire skeleton stood revealed in the coffin. 

"The wail again rang through the silent vault: 
'Ah, ah, Macchabee ! Thou hast reached the last 
stage of dissolution, so dreadful to mortals. The 
work that follows death is complete. But despair 
not, for death is not the end of all. ... So return 
if thou deservedst and desirest.' 

"With a slowness equal to that of the dissolution, 
the bones became covered with flesh and cerements, 
and all the ghastly steps were reproduced reversed. 
Gradually the sparkle of the eyes began to shine 
through the gloom; but \yhen the reformation was 



THE MAGIC CITY 319 

« 

completed, behold! there was no longer the hand- 
some and smiling young woman, but the sleek, rotund 
body, ruddy cheeks, and self-conscious look of a 
banker. . . . The prosperous banker stepped forth, 
sleek and tangible, and haughtily strode away be- 
fore our eyes, passing through the audience into the 
darkness. . . . 

"He of the black gown and pointed hood now 
emerged through an invisible door, and asked if there 
was any one in the audience who desired to pass 
through the experience that they had just witnessed. 
This created a suppressed commotion; each peered 
into the face of his neighbor to find one with courage 
sufficient for the ordeal. . . . 

"A mysterious figure in black waylaid the crowd 
as it filed out. He held an inverted skull, into which 
we were expected to drop sous through the natural 
opening there, and it was with a feeling of relief 
from a heavy weight that we departed and turned 
our backs on the green lights at the entrance. '^ 

Of course, I could not understand all that was 
said, but have no reason to think they were not ex- 
actly as the writer quoted has stated, — all the extra- 
ordinary gestures I observed would fit exactly the 
words said. However, I felt none of the horror of 
it — saw only the amusing side of the affair, and kept 
wondering how on earth human beings could ever 
have thought out such a program, as an amusement. 

Upon the occasion of my visit, the "victim" was a 
young man who, in answer to a request for some one 



320 PARIS 

to come forward and show his friends how he would 
look in death (which is evidently the usual pro- 
cedure), arose from the midst of his companions, 
and, with a sheepish grin, went to the platform and 
walked into the coffin standing so invitingly upon 
end. 

Of course, the cause was quite hidden from the 
audience, but the effect was mystery (the attractions 
of the mysterious were thrown over the whole per- 
formance with no niggardly profusion), and we sat 
there, in the uncertain light of the flickering tapers, 
looking at the performance, and listening to the slow, 
tolling cadence of the Chopin Funeral March with 
which it was accompanied, and gaped through it all. 
One might not, perhaps, claim any special virtue for 
this particular form of entertainment, though it is, 
to say next to nothing, a curious one. 

I am told that all these transformations are ac- 
complished by means of lights and mirrors ! but, no 
matter, — it is a weird and melancholy show. 

Of the other things accomplished by means of 
lights and mirrors, I have not spoken — neither has 
any one else — but all who have been there will under- 
stand to what I refer. Nothing so horrible, — noth- 
ing concerning the subject of death. No, indeed! 
But it could not be put into print. 

From here, in order to further round out my ex- 
perience, they took me to the Cafe Ciel (the Cafe 
of Heaven), the antithesis of the other. 

The ceiling was a deep blue, besprinkled with 
small incandescent lights, giving to it the resemblance 



THE MAGIC CITY 321 

of a starry sky. The waiters were garbed in angelic 
robes, light, gauzy wings flapping back and forth on 
their shoulders as they moved about in the breeze, 
sandals on their bare feet. Personally, however, I 
preferred the other one, — the gloomy one, — to this 
bright cafe. There was food for some speculative 
thought in the other cafe; here all was merriment, 
with no illusions to lead the mind into any unusual 
channels. The whole thing was too apparently a 
joke. 

One fact I noticed, because the opposite is so con- 
stantly affirmed; and that was, that the guests were 
French, in both cabarets. If there was another 
American in either audience, — other than myself, — 
he did not betray his nationality by speech, for noth- 
ing but French did I hear. 

There are some fearful places on Montmartre, I 
am told: cabarets where it would not be safe to go; 
but as I had no desire to see them, I never made any 
effort to investigate the facts. 

These cabarets are! really a curious invention, 
half-way between a concert-hall and a beer-hall, 
where there is generally some sort of music ren- 
dered, or recitations given, impromptu speeches 
made on politics, on art, on leading questions of the 
day, — something to amuse; and these places are of 
all sorts and conditions, each attracting its own par- 
ticular brand of patronage. 

The brasserie is quite different in character, — a 
sort of cafe where they specialize in beer. And 
sometimes they are very pretty, — all fixed up in 



.322 PARIS 

either the old Flemish or German style, as a general 
thing, with stained-glass windows, high-backed, nar- 
row-legged chairs of dark, somber woods, with the 
polish of age on them ; barrel ceilings, and sawdust 
on the floors. Once in a while, we came across one 
fitted up in French style: an abundant supply of 
mirrors on the walls, red velvet seats lined up along 
the walls, and small, marble-topped tables standing 
in front of the velvet seats. 

We went also to the Moulin Rouge one evening, 
but I could not enjoy its attractions — my mind went 
persistently back to the Whatleys, and all I had lost 
by their return to England. The show was a repeti- 
tion of the former one, but my curiosity had been 
satisfied on my first visit, and I found I no longer 
cared for what it had to offer. So much has associa- 
tion to do with anything we do, or see in life. 

We soon left the place, and went to the Bal 
Bulier, — an enormous dance hall frequented more 
particularly by students. 

The great hall was brilliant with lights, and sev- 
eral hundred couples went whirling by at a most 
giddy rate. A constant whirl! Never do these people 
reverse, and it is a source of perpetual amazement to 
me that they do not fall in their tracks from vertigo. 

Some of the young women were evidently de- 
votees of the bicycle, for they were there, dancing 
in their bloomers. I do not care at all for these 
places, but who wants to come to Paris and not be 
able to say he has seen them ? 

The Ambassadeurs in the Champs Elysees, — an 



THE MAGIC CITY 323 

enormous cafe-chantant, where the prices are very 
high and the food not so good as is to be found in 
many places for much less money, — provides an en- 
tertainment of another kind. We were not so much 
interested in the food, however, we went to see what 
there was to be seen. 

We sat at a table in the balcony, from which point 
we could see all that was going on upon the stage; 
thus we could enjoy our own dinner and at the same 
time take in the spectacle of the crowd of extraordi- 
narily well-dressed people, — all engaged in the very 
agreeable pastime of eating a well-served dinner. 

The place was beautiful with myriads of electric 
lights and decorations of fresh flowers and foliage. 
A young woman in a somewhat abbreviated costume, 
came out and sang that same song of "Oh, oh, oh, 
oh, oh !" that I had heard the very first night I was 
in Paris, and she executed the same sort of littk 
hops, kicks, and side-steps, punctuated by the rolling 
of the eyes, as the Moulin Rouge singer had done. 
Madame O explained to me the words in Eng- 
lish, and, while not positively prohibitive, might not 
look so well in English as they perhaps do in French. 
No one seems to object to the catchy little song in 
the least, and it is whistled everywhere on the streets. 

The songs I could not understand well enough to 
really enjoy or to appreciate their meanings, as they 
all seemed to be very intimately concerned with the 
questions of the moment in Paris, — filled with allu- 
sions to politics and such kindred subjects. The 
French people seem to enjoy especially this sort of 



324 PARIS 

entertainment. They greet all political "flings" with 
genuine delight, if not actual enthusiasm; but it 
might be difficult for a foreigner to really catch 
the spirit of all the songs and quips,— to get into the 
atmosphere, as it were. 

But the eyes! — ^and the kicking! One can easily 
understand that part of the entertainment. 

The sight on the outside of these summer-night 
cafes seems to me to be a more attractive exhibition 
than is that on the inside. The lights shine down 
through the emerald green of the trees, and the 
music comes floating out in softened harmonies that 
fall agreeably on the ear on a warm summer eve- 
ning. Barring the idea of lounging about for a free 
entertainment, I should much prefer the outside. 

There are several of these great, brilliantly- 
lighted, cafes-chantant back under the trees along 
the Champs Elysees, and one can saunter along and 
enjoy the attractive illuminations an4 listen to the 
music without the expenditure of a sou, if one so 
wishes. 

The cafes, cabarets, brasseries and wine-shops of 
Paris have been provided with some very capricious 
names, — names that revel in possibilities, — but here 
is one, on a wine-shop, that will make the stranger 
turn, and look again, just to make sure : "A I'En- 
fant Jesus." It has an iron grill made in the design 
of the branches of a vine, into which has been woven 
the monogram of the Saviour, and the whole is 
topped off by an image of the Christ-child himself. 



CHAPTER XXXVI 

THE PALAIS ROYAL. FAIRS. THE RACES. THE 
FRENCH "fourth OF JULy" 

Whatever else may have been taken away from 
the Palais Royal, good music in the garden still re- 
mains to it. One afternoon we wandered into its 
famous old garden so full of reminiscences, and sat 
and listened to a splendid program given by the 
"Guard of the Republic," — a company of as fine 
musicians as I ever listened to. 

The garden was breezy and cool, the trees cast 
their waving green shadows about us, the people 
were quiet and well-mannered, and the open-air con- 
cert all that one could wish for. All seemed so 
quiet and tranquil, yet only a short distance away, 
was the rush and roar of the ceaseless traffic of the 
Rue St. Honore, which reached us only in subdued 
sounds between the bursts of music. 

There are so many lovely places in and around 
Paris where one may go to hear music when that 
particular frame of mind seems to call for it. 

And fairs, too! What a joy they are! That is, 
of course, to those who find amusement in indulging 
in this pastime. I should certainly recommend all 
foreigners to attend some fair in order to see this 

325 



326 PARIS 

phase of life In Paris. These fairs, I am told, are 
held the year round; that the people who have stalls, 
or exhibitions, at one fair, pull up stakes when that 
is over, and move on to the next one, and so on. 

We all went to the great Fair at Neuilly, on the 
outskirts of Paris, one day in June, which, I believe, 
is always the month for the fair in this quarter of 
the city. 

Stalls and booths of every description were erected 
for about a mile along the Avenue de Neuilly; while 
across the broad street from side to side, were strung 
flags and banners, combined with garlands and 
wreathes of gay-colored paper-flowers and tinsel, 
giving the long street a most festive appearance. 

All kinds of gimcracks and cheap wares were for 
sale. There were many different games of chance, 
upon which we squandered our money with joy, espe- 
cially on "Petits Chevaux, — a miniature horserace, 
run by little metal horses worked by some mechan- 
ical device. But one can get just as excited over a 
tin horse as any other kind, when it comes to a race. 
People tossed their franc on the horse of their choice 
as eagerly as they might have tossed much more on 
a live animal. 

We all gambled, and every one of us rode on the 
"Merry-go-round." Nor were we the only grown- 
ups who indulged in the amusement of grasping a 
grinning beast of the jungle and whirling around 
and around through the dust-laden atmosphere to 
one of those tunes that is never heard outside of a 
circus. There were people, old men, and women, 



THE MAGIC CITY 327 

too, — fat old ladies even, who looked all of sixty or 
more, — riding around and around on their beasts, 
looking as pleased as could be. There is no fun in 
simply looking on at anything; to enjoy such things, 
one must enter into the spirit of the thing and do 
as the others do. 

We went also to the fair at Charenton, which 
was somewhat different in character. There were 
not so many amusements as there had been at Neu- 
illy, but there were many very attractive things for 
sale, — many more than there had been at Neuilly. 
Buttons! Buttons! Boxes and boxes of the most 
beautiful buttons were for sale. Buttons for every 
sort of garment, for every possible occasion, for 
underwear, for dresses, for coats, — for everything 
and all times! 

There were remnants and scraps of the most ex- 
quisite silks and velvets; remnants and wee bits of 
hand-made laces; remnants of all kinds (this I saw 
only at the Charenton Fair) which are purchased 
of the great dressmaking and millinery establish- 
ments of Paris by these "Fair" folks, and then sold 
at the different Fairs. Can any woman resist boxes 
and boxes of scraps of the most gorgeous silks and 
velvets? I doubt it. I purchased most beautifully 
bejeweled buttons, and then had them fashioned into 
hatpins and belt-buckles, for gifts to friends as well 
as for my own use. They were beautiful, and cost 
only a few pennies. 

Out of the scraps I purchased there was construct- 
ed a kimono, — a "crazy-patch" creation, — that 



328 PARIS 

would have made any Chinaman that ever came from 
Cathay turn green with envy: all it lacked was the 
sacred dragon. For days we would spend our time 
back there, under that vine-covered pergola, design- 
ing and executing this masterpiece, — this "work of 
art." 

A laundress who came to do the family washing 
every two weeks, at once caught the fever. She 
had never seen such a piece of work before (as this 
form of fancy work does not seem to be known in 
Paris), and determined at once to make one for 
each of her three little daughters. 

This laundress was a marvel ! She had three lit- 
tle daughters,— all sweet-looking and pretty, — whom 
she always kept immaculate and dressed with good 
taste and judgment. She supplied their every need 
so far as she was able ; she was an excellent mother, 
who had provided her little ones with everything 
but a name. However, she did not seem to mind that 
at all, and did laundry work to support them. All 
the neighbors seemed to take a sympathetic interest 
in her, and employed her whenever it was possible 
to do so; turned over to her their cast-off clothing, 
and provided her with considerable food and vari- 
ous other things. Every one seemed to have an in- 
terest in her and in her httle family, and I never 
heard any talk of "race suicide" in her presence. 
There are many interesting sides to the question. 

To children, French law has ever shown tenderness. Thus, chil- 
dren born out of wedlock are naturalized by the subsequent mar- 
riage of parents, and recent legislation (March, 1896) has favored 
them in matter of property. 



THE MAGIC CITY 329 

Anteriorally, provided that an illegitimate child had been legally 
acknowledged by either parent, the law awarded him a third 
of what would have been his portion but for the bar sinister. 

By a recent law this share is now the half of what would ac- 
crue to a legitimate son or daughter, two-thirds, if no brothers or 
sisters exist born in wedlock, and the entire parental fortune falls 
to him in case of no direct descendants remaining. 

We also went to the races, to see what could be 
seen there. On the Sunday of the Grand Prix we 
went to Longchamps to see the parade of fashion 
and beautiful women, as well as to see the races. 
There were thousands and thousands of people 
there, — all most beautifully appareled. One could 
scarcely believe that so much wealth and beauty 
could be gathered together In one place. 

There are a number of "stands" called "Trib- 
unes," the central one of which Is called the ''Pavil- 
ion/^ Here the judges and race authorities take 
their places. I do not know whether we were In the 
"Grand Stand" or not; or whether, as a matter of 
fact, there Is such a thing In France. One seemed 
about the same as the other. 

There Is a large apartment for refreshments, a 
salon for ladles; and there are magnificent views 
to be had of the Bols de Boulogne, as well as of 
the race tracks. Everybody became quite excited, 
but the sporting Individual did not rave In quite 
such aggressive apparel as do some of our own at 
the county fairs. 

No matter where one turned, there were to be seen 
long lines of carriages, — vehicles of every descrip- 
tion, — filled with elegantly-gowned women and well- 



330 PARIS 

groomed men; all headed for Longchamps. One 
had to fall into line, and move more and more slow- 
ly, the nearer to the Bois he arrived. There it was 
next to impossible to move. 

I was told that for many days before the great 
event, every carriage in Paris had been engaged. 

There were six races run that day, and I presume 
the usual amount of spare cash changed hands. 

The French "Fourth of July" is another event of 
interest. This comes on the 14th of July, however. 
We went out in the afternoon, just to drive about the 
streets, see the crowds of people, and enjoy the fes- 
tive decorations. 

The French express their patriotic exuberance in 
a manner somewhat different from our own. The 
firecracker and other ear-splitting devices have not 
been assiduously cultivated. Instead, they dance. 
They erect dancing pavilions in the middle of the 
streets, one at about every two or three blocks, deco- 
rate them with lanterns, hire fiddlers, and from the 
1 2th to the 14th of July all the neighborhood comes 
out and dances whenever the fancy happens to strike 
it. 

I had always heard and understood that it was 
simply the "common" people who entered into this 
public celebration — servants, porters, and persons of 
that class, — ^but this is not true. I found that all the 
people in the neighborhood of pavilions come out, 
old as well as young, and indulge in a waltz or two 
in order to show their patriotism, and, incidentally, 
have a lot of fun. I saw no rowdyism at any time. 



THE MAGIC CITY 331 

The streets are decorated with paper lanterns of 
gay colors suspended in the trees, which, when Hght- 
ed at night, make a fairyhke scene of the whole city; 
the long shadowy streets being outlined with these 
rows of little fiery eyes shining out from their green 
retreats, casting vivid splotches of colored light 
down through the ghostly shadows of black trees on 
to the spectators that fill every seat and chair along 
the sidewalks. 

Many private houses are also made gay by lighted 
lanterns hung over the doorways and in the win- 
dows. Out on the Avenue Kleber, I saw a flat- 
roofed house outlined with red and yellow lanterns. 
The music twiddles and twaddles far into the night, 
no one seeming to mind it in the least. 

We, too, took our turn, and waltzed one evening 
in a pavilion erected in front of the church at Char- 
enton, in company with all our neighbors, and then 
afterward got into the machine and went into town 
to see the fireworks. There was a mighty display 
in front of the Mint, under Government direction 
(individuals do not indulge in pyrotechnical displays 
in this exceedingly well-regulated town). 

Here there were vast crowds, seething and surg- 
ing in every direction. After the fireworks were 
concluded, there was a grand rush, — a stampede, — 
for the cafes. Every chair on the boulevards was 
soon filled, and every one was talking of the wonder- 
ful, magnificent display. So far as the actual dis- 
play was concerned, it could not be compared to those 
with which every American is familiar, but I did not 



332 PARIS 

tell my companions so. I applauded as vociferously 
as they did, and said not a word. Such a statement 
would not have been believed if I had made it. 

We sat there until two in the morning. Every- 
body was still remaining; but we felt that we had 
celebrated sufficiently and went home, only to find 
that dancing was still in full swing at Charenton. 

To watch a French crowd is a pleasure : all 
treat one another with such courtesy. Even the for- 
eigner is never treated in a discourteous manner. No 
matter how laughable our mistakes, they smile never 
a smile, nor say a word of ridicule, but will even 
help out by a word or gesture. This is very pleas- 
ant, for we must be amusing at times. There are 
coarse natures in France as well as in every other 
country, one must admit; but speaking of the people 
in a general way, one could not say that they were 
other than courteous. 



CHAPTER XXXVII 

MUSEE CARNA VALET 

After various experiences, I came to the conclu- 
sion that it is really much better to go to the art gal- 
leries and museums alone. It may be a little lonely, 
perhaps, but it is better, if one wants to see these 
things to his own satisfaction. In order to really 
get in touch with such things, I must, in fact, be 
alone; then I can form my impressions and arrange 
my own ideas. When with others there is always so 
much to distract. We talk constantly, and conse- 
quently are no wiser on coming away than on enter- 
ing. If one wants to spend an hour in the examina- 
tion of a single object, alone he can do so; if one 
wants to simply wander about, casting a glance at 
this, or at that, he is free to indulge his fancy. In 
company, one must, more or less, defer to another. 

I went to the Louvre in company with my hostess 
upon two or three different occasions, and found it 
almost impossible to look at anything. She would 
walk, walk, walk, — never stopping long enough to 
permit me to look at a thing. 

"Oh, that?" she would say, "That's nothing! 
Let's " 

And on we would go. She was so accustomed to 
333 



334 PARIS 

all these beautiful things that she could not compre- 
hend that I was not, — that I was still a stranger to 
these magnificent paintings and objects of art. 

Upon another occasion, while discussing a paint- 
ing that for some reason was displeasing to me, my 
companion (a woman whose nationality was other 
than French, and whose acquaintance I had made in 
Paris) told me that I should never try to criticize 
a painting; that Americans knew how to build bridges 
and railroads, and construct machinery, perhaps, but 
that they knew nothing of art, and a few more re- 
marks to the same effect. I didn't know whether to 
be amused or vexed, and so I laughed; but after that 
I visited the galleries alone. I could thereby see 
more and could gain a better understanding of what 
I saw. Baedeker, Murray, Allen, Hare, and others 
are better guides than friends or acquaintances, — 
they never talk back at you, to exasperate instead of 
enlighten. If one has an abundance of time at his 
disposal, a lonely visit to a gallery with one of these . 
silent guides, could not well be improved upon. 

Not long afterward I had a splendid chance to get 
even with that woman. Prowling about in the neigh- 
borhood of the Avenue de Neuilly one day, we came 
to the Rond-Point d'Inkermann, and stopped to look 
at the Church of Saint Pierre, when I happened to 
espy a large statue in bronze of M. Perronet, the 
man who built the Pont de Neuilly, the Pont de la 
Concorde, and numbers of other beautiful and noted 
bridges, and I asked her if she saw that splendid 
monument over there. 



THE MAGIC CITY 335 

*Tes, Indeed!" she replied. "What a splendid 
thing it is!" 

"Well," said the benighted American, "that is 
the kind of monument that the artistic French have 
erected in. honor of a man who knew how to build 
bridges." 

And then I quickly began to talk of other things, 
but wondered whether any woman could resist the 
temptation and the satisfaction of hitting an enemy 
when the enemy can't hit back at her. Paris is 
filled with these beautiful monuments to the memory 
of men who have accomplished things. 

One beautiful bright morning, — just the right 
morning for visiting a gallery, — I hied me to the 
Musee Carnavalet, the one-time residence of that 
brilliant woman, Mme. de Sevigne. It is filled with 
relics of the revolution, Roman antiquities, memo- 
rials, and such things, and Madame's kitchen is filled 
with sarcophagi. 

Tthink of all the objects to be seen in this Museum 
the models of buildings interest me most. From 
them one can learn something of how buildings of 
historical interest, — now demolished, — really look- 
ed. 

Here is a good-sized model of the Bastille made 
of a stone actually taken from the building itself, 
as are also a lot of grewsome relics of various kinds 
connected with this odious prison so filled with hor- 
rible memories. It gives one a good idea of how 
it really appeared before it was destroyed by an en- 



336 PARIS 

raged and maddened people, and is a grim reminder 
of what existed in the "good old days." 

But look at the model as long as I will, I cannot 
reconstruct the Bastille out there on the Place de la 
Bastille; I cannot imagine how it would look there, 
instead of the beautiful Colonne de Juillet (Column 
of July) crowned with its "gilded bronze Genius of 
Liberty standing on a Globe, holding in one hand the 
torch of Civilization, and in the other, the broken 
chains of Slavery," while at its base, in huge vaults 
especially constructed, repose the remains of many 
of those who, during the 1830 Revolution, attempted 
to sack the Louvre. Nor can I make the fine large 
buildings on all sides of its old site, where the Col- 
umn now stands, look as described by an eyewitness 
of the scenes that were enacted during the Revolu- 
tion of '48. A letter written on June 29, 1848, 
says : 

There is not one pane of glass left whole from the Boulevard de 
St. Martin to the Bastille; indeed, in many houses you can scarcely 
distinguish where the windows have been. They are so confounded 
with the breaches made by cannon-balls. Near the Column of 
July, where the most violent cannonade took place, the fronts of 
the houses are as it were taken off; I can only compare it to a 
stage decoration in which you see the interior of a house from 
top to bottom. 

One of them, more completely destroyed than the others, and 
which was still smouldering, had no part standing but the wall, 
on which the looking-glass remained unbroken over the chimney- 
piece, together with a glass bottle and three prints; a little hearth- 
brush hung by the fireplace, and smoothing-irons were on a little 
shelf; everything else, doors, windows, floors, staircases, and ceil- 
ings had fallen into the burning gulf below, and no one knew or 
seemed to care whether the inhabitants had shared the same fate. 
Traces of blood were still visible everywhere, though they had 
evidently been washed. . . . 

The Rue St. Antoine, up which I went after leaving the Bas- 



THE MAGIC CITY 337 

tille, contained seventy-five barricades . . . hardly an inch of wall 
is free from shot; iron bars are torn from sockets; shutters, per- 
siennes, and balconies are litterly battered in or hang by one 
hinge, swinging against the ruins. 

One could scarcely imagine such a Paris, when 
looking at it to-day. 

Nearly all the rooms in which Madame de 
Sevigne lived are most beautifully decorated with 
panelings and carved wood, which is said to have 
been taken from famous old mansions in Paris. 
Here, too, are some splendid chimney-pieces, richly 
carved and decorated. 

Madam de Sevigne's apartment on the first floor, is hardly al- 
tered, and her bedroom and salon have been especially kept invio- 
late. The admirable mouldings, the curious mirrors, the old-fash- 
ioned lustre, remain as she left them, when she went to her 
daughter at Grignan to die. 

In this salon,' and in the wide corridor leading to it, both now 
so silent and pensive, she received all the men of her day worth 
receiving J and it is here alone that we breathe the very atmos- 
phere of this incomparable creature. 

I found an interest in looking at the picture of 
Marie Antoinette that was taken while she was a 
prisoner in the Conciergerie ; and one of Charlotte 
Corday, taken during her trial (a nice time, indeed, 
to take pictures of people!). It must have been 
taken on a Wednesday, the day of her execution, for 
Carlisle says : 

On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and 
Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm; she 
dates it "fourth day of the Preparation of Peace." A strange 
murmur ran through the Hall at sight of her; you could not say 
of what character. Tinville has his indictments and tape-papers; 
the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he sold her the 
sheath-knife. "All these details are needless," interrupted Char- 



338 PARIS 

lotte; "It is I that killed Marat." By whose instigation? "By no 
one's." What tempted you, then? "His crimes. I killed the man," 
added she, raising her voice extremely as they went on with their 
questions, "I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; a vil- 
lain to save innocents; a savage wild-beast to give repose to my 
country!" . . . The public gazes astonished; the hasty limners 
sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving; the men of the 
law proceed with their formalities. The doom is death as a mur- 
deress. 

And this is the picture we now may look at, but its 
sight calls up the horrible and hideous things of 
that mighty revolution. 

There are many, many things, however, that one 
may overlook with impunity, if he does not care for 
the grewsome. For instance, a copy of the Constitu- 
tion of 1793, bound in human skin! Bah! and the 
amazing part of it is that just above it hangs a 
"Table of the Rights of Man !" One right, I should 
think, might be the right not to have his skin made 
into book-bindings. I have read somewhere that 
there was a tannery established at this time, for 
the tanning of human skin, and that they even made 
playing-cards of it. Times have changed since then. 

In another room is the armchair in which died 
that magnificent Frenchman, Voltaire. Such objects 
one may contemplate without repugnance. 

Another thing that interested as well as amused 
me, was a collection of "elaborately-dressed wax 
dolls of the time of Louis XV, including a figure of 
Voltaire.'' Also, the death mask of Gustave Flau- 
bert and that of Michelet the historian. It seems 
too bad to be obliged to meet these famous sons of 
the earth, for the first time, in this way, but alas! 



THE MAGIC CITY 339 

It is the only way now. Death masks and wax dolls ! 
However, it is fortunate that we have even these, 
to help us form some idea of what they looked like 
in life. 

There is a certain pensiveness about all these 
places, — these places that live on and on because of 
their connection with historical personages, or great 
events; certain chill pervades them, and there is al- 
ways that feeling that we should tiptoe and speak in 
whispers. 

All about in this neighborhood are lovely little 
old streets filled with the same style of narrow- 
shouldered, slant-eyed mansions of a bygone day. 
These old streets of Paris are so much more ap- 
pealing to me personally than are the wide open 
Boulevards. Perhaps it is because their days are 
numbered, and in a short time they will be only a 
memory. Soon, I understand, they will be torn 
away, and their old mansions carted away to make 
room for the new streets now contemplated. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 

THE SALON. CHURCH OF SAINT VINCENT DE PAUL. 
NATIONAL LIBRARY 

The Salon had an attraction for me, — an attrac- 
tion sufficient to draw me there many times. It is 
a magnificent opportunity in life to have the privilege 
of gazing at the works of the old masters hung up 
there in the Louvre, but it is a matter of keen in- 
terest to be able to look on and see what is being 
done and accomplished in our own day: to look at 
the miles and miles of paintings and sculptures, the 
work of the young men and women living and work- 
ing to-day, bringing down from the clouds of im- 
agination these beautiful, tangible creations that 
are no longer mere dreams. We cannot tell what 
'^Old Master" we brush up against every day in 
our long rambles through the great spaces. Some 
of these exhibitors are going to be "Old Masters" 
some time. But who can tell which ones? 

At the same time, there is something pathetic 
about these annual exhibitions: the high hopes, the 
ambitions and dreams of future greatness that seem 
to fill the atmosphere. And how few, compara- 
tively, reach the goal ! However, the joy and su- 
preme happiness that exist in the creation of these 

340 



THE MAGIC CITY 34i 

wonders seems to be payment sufficient, for the 
Salon never lacks its quota of contributions to its 
annual show; and day after day, vast throngs of 
visitors pay their respects to the exhibitions of the 
Grand Palais. 

John Galsworthy, writing in the Atlantic Monthly^ 
has said: 

And in what sort of age, I thought, are artists living now? 
Are conditions favorable? Life is very multiple; ''movements" 
are very many; interests in "facts" is very great; "news" batters 
at our brains; the limelight is terribly turned on; and all this 
is adverse to the artist. Yet leisure is abundant, the facilities 
for study great; liberty is respected. But, far exceeding all other 
reasons, there is one great reason why in this age of ours, art, it 
seems, must flourish. For, just as cross-breeding — if it be not too 
violent — often gives an extra vitality to the off-spring, so does 
cross-breeding of philosophies make for vitality in art. 

Historians, looking back from the far future, may record this 
age as the Third Renaissance. We who are lost in it, working 
or looking on, can neither tell what we are doing, nor where 
standing; but we cannot help observing that, just as in the Greek 
Renaissance, worn-out pagan orthodoxy was penetrated by new 
philosophy; just as, in the Italian Renaissance, pagan philosophy, 
reasserting itself, fertilized again an already too-inbred Christian 
creed ; so now, orthodoxy fertilized by science is producing a 
fresh and fuller conception of life — a love of perfection, not for 
hope of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for perfection's 
sake. 

Slowly, under our feet, beneath our consciousness, is forming 
that new philosophy, and it is in times of new philosophies that 
art, itself in essence always a discovery, must flourish. Those 
whose sacred suns and moons are ever in the past, tell us that 
our age Is going to the dogs; and it is true that we are in con- 
fusion. The waters are broken, and every nerve and sinew of 
the artist is strained to discover his own safety. It is an age 
of stir and change, a season of new wine and old bottles. Yet, 
assuredly, in spite of breakages and v/aste, a wine worth the 
drinking is all the time being made. 

That the work of the artists of our own time is 
of no mean order, one has only to go and look at 



342 PARIS 

the magnificent frescoes of Flandrin in the Church 
of Saint Vincent de Paul, shining along the walls of 
the nave and choir, in their golden background. 
These are done in the style of the old Italian works, 
and ''are among the noblest achievements of modern 
French art." 

The Paris Illustre de Joanne says: 

This immense composition, painted on a ground of gold, repre- 
sents two long processions of Christians of both sexes, from the 
humblest believers up to the Evangelists and the doctors, extends 
along the two sides of the building in all the majestic simplicity 
of the Greek manner. It is a pictorial rendering of the idea, "The 
Gospel preached to the nations, opens to them the path to heaven." 

Picot, the painter of the beautiful fresco in the 
dome of the choir, might also be termed of our own 
time, as he did not die until 1868, — not so very 
long ago. This splendid work represents the Savi- 
our sitting on a throne, and the Saint for whom 
the church is named, bringing and presenting a lot 
of little children to him as he sits there, looking so 
kindly at them. 

These frescoes, and the splendid terraced steps 
leading up to the entrance, make of Saint Vincent 
de Paul one of the noteworthy things to be seen in 
Paris. 

Among the "noteworthy" things to be seen in 
Paris, I should certainly include the National Li- 
brary in the Rue Richelieu. It has been said that 
the average human being has no realization of the 
significance of numbers beyond about the one-thou- 
sand mark; that after one-thousand, if one uses the 
term of millions, he might just as well use billions, 



THE MAGIC CITY 343 

as then it is only a matter of figures that carry no 
realization of their size at all. So, if we are told 
that this library contains 2,700,000 books, 150,000 
volumes of manuscript, about 15,000 volumes and 
portfolios of engravings, and 300,000 maps and 
charts we may be pardoned if we do not quite grasp 
the magnitude of the numbers. However, we can 
perhaps readily understand that Paris owns a good- 
ly-sized library; and this is but one of the several 
great collections of books and manuscripts to be 
found in this magnificent city on the Seine. 



CHAPTER XXXIX 

SAINT DENIS. FONTAINEBLEAU 

We motored out to Saint Denis one day, and there 
I encountered another one of those places that I 
did not like; for I did not like this great, beautiful 
cathedral of Saint Denis. There was something 
lacking in its appeal to my fancy. I do not know 
what it was, but I felt uncomfortable and ill at ease 
in its great gray enclosure. 

The place is a graveyard, — a perfect forest of 
tombs and monuments, — and its vastness and gloom 
somewhat chills one. Here are the tombs of 
Blanche and Jean, the children of the good Saint 
Louis, which Mr. Baedeker pronounces as ''Interest- 
ing works in embossed and enameled copper." 

Some of the statues are elongated editions of 
Dante, and give one the shivers; but they all repre- 
sent kings, — earthly kings, physical kings, wicked 
kings, good kings, who, as soon as they have been 
dead long enough, are "elongated," hung up against 
a wall, and turned into saints, or something quite as 
disturbing. Dead, they at once loose their kingly ap- 
pearance and become mere sticks of pious-looking 
marble. One feels as though he ought to burn candles 
and say a prayer. They are pious frauds! 

344 



THE MAGIC CITY 345 

However, we generally go to visit the Church of 
Saint Denis because it is the burial place of the 
French Kings, and we must expect to meet them 
there. So far as I personally am concerned, I 
should prefer them as "kings" and not as applicants 
for canonization. 

Even that fearsome woman, Catherine de Medici, 
is represented in a kneeling position. But she is in 
bronze, not in the flesh. And everywhere, no mat- 
ter in what direction one turns, he is confronted with 
Saint Denis! Saint Denis with and without his 
head, seeming not at all disconcerted or dismayed 
by the fact that he is there in company with Marie 
Antoinette arrayed in a gorgeous ball gown. Of 
course, she is kneeling as if in prayer, but the fact 
remains that she is dressed for a ball. Poor Queen ! 
We forgive her the beautiful ball dress when we 
remember her in the Temple and in the Concier- 
gerie! We might, in all justice, write over her 
head in beautiful letters of white light: 

"Paid in Full." 

Ah, the stained glass ! The thirty-seven enormous 
windows of this great graveyard-cathedral are beau- 
tiful ! The light streams in through the wonderful 
stained glass, pouring down a flood of crimson, blue, 
green, and gold gleams across the gray expanse of 
the floor below, and casting strange shadows upon 
the elongated Dantes along the walls. 

I wandered about the nave and aisles, and through 
the "dim twilight of the vestibule," but felt anxious 
and uneasy; it was not a place in which one wanted 



346 PARIS 

to sit and dream. The magnificence of the kings 
was perhaps too much for the simple repubhcan. 
The exteriorization of the soul of Saint Denis is 
marble and stone, and that is hard and cold. 

A trip to Fontainebleau will dispel the gloom, for 
there the gods are not dead, — only sleeping a little 
between whiles. Their. footprints are everywhere; 
we may even say a prayer to them, if we like. 

One ideal day, when the sun was flooding the 
whole country with a magical beauty of its own, we 
hitched up the machine and set out for a spin to this 
beautiful Forest of Fontainebleau in company with 
the wife and daughters of Monsieur le Directeur, 
for whom we stopped on the way. 

There is no front entrance to their house. It 
stands even with tlfe street line. At one side is a 
high black iron gateway, or entrance, with a bell. 
Monsieur O — — rang the bell, which gave back 
only a tinkle, but in a moment, an old, old man 
opened the gate, his brown, wrinkled face creased 
with smiles which expressed the most friendly of 
greetings. We got out and went into the house. 

At one side of the huge, gray-stone mansion was 
the house entrance, — a wide, black doorway; and 
beyond the iron gateway, running parallel with the 
mansion, was a wide courtyard filled with flowers and 
graveled walks and in nearly all of the windows fac- 
ing this courtyard were boxes and vases of gerani- 
ums. It was an ideal place for an idle day. 

The greetings and salutations, interspersed with 
kisses on each cheek, were soon over, and in a short 



THE MAGIC CITY 347 

time we were out of Paris, on to the white sandy 
roadway leading to Fontainebleau. It was some 
distance, — about thirty-five miles, I think, — but every 
inch of the way was filled with interest to me. It 
was difficult for me to keep my mind long enough 
from what I was so intently observing to join very 
frequently in the conversation of my chattering com- 
panions. It was all new to me, but an old story to 
them. 

We passed little villages that looked as though 
they had been standing there for centuries, and once 
in a while, in the hazy distance, a lone church be- 
hind some obstruction of trees or a slight elevation, 
would betray its presence by pointing a black cross, 
or a small spire, to the shining heavens. 

One does not see women and children and young 
girls on the public highways here as we do in Amer- 
ica. The very few we did meet were in carriages of 
various sorts, except the peasants. Even these were 
met only at long intervals. The roads in some di- 
rections from Paris seem very quiet and lonely, 
while in other directions, they seem to be filled with, 
hurry and bustle — entirely different from the quiet 
ones. Just what the reason is, I do not know. The 
road to Fontainebleau is one of the quiet, tranquil 
roads. 

I do not wonder that artists flock here by the 
hundreds. It would be difficult to imagine a more 
serene or beautiful spot, although the "spot" is of 
very considerable dimensions; Mr. Baedeker says 
the forest is some fifty-six miles in circumference. 



348 PARIS 

Beautiful, shady walks and drives Intersect the 
forest in all directions. There are hills and vales 
and caverns and huge rocks. 

We rode for several hours, and at noon had din- 
ner in a quaint old restaurant, far back in the forest. 

There are all kinds of restaurants and cafes scat- 
tered at intervals throughout the woods, and one 
need not to travel very far before he will come upon 
an eating-place of some kind. As the French cook- 
ing is always tasty, this all adds very materially to 
the enjoyment of a trip through the forest. 

There are places, too, where they sell all kinds of 
curios made from the wood of the forest trees : salad 
sets, consisting of a wooden spoon of generous pro- 
portions and a huge fork; rosaries; napkin-rings, and 
the usual assortment of such things. And we all 
buy them, joyfully and gleefully, and treasure them 
as something of almost priceless worth. 

We did not spend very much time at the Palace 
of Fontainebleau, — only caught a glimpse of it at 
that time. It was at a later date, that I went alone. 
Then I had the opportunity to see what I wanted 
to see most. 

Sentiment, — one of the most enduring things of 
existence, one that will, in all probability, outlast the 
admonitions of all the wiseacres of the world, even 
Including the mighty Ruskin, — runs riot when one 
sees for the first time, this famous palace that epito- 
mizes so much of French history. 

Sentiment, sentiment? Of course we grow senti- 
mental over it all. Who can look upon the grand 



THE MAGIC CITY 349 

Cour des Adieux, where Napoleon bade farewell to 
his Old Guard after his abdication, without some 
feeling of sentiment in his heart? I, too, shed my 
quota of tears, but, just why, I do not know. Senti- 
ment, sentiment! 

Here, again, the ghost of Marie Antoinette walks 
in those rooms which were formerly used by her. 

In Napoleon's rooms we may still see his campaign 
writing-desk and the historical table upon which he 
signed his abdication, and allow ourselves to revel 
in the worship of heroism for a brief time. The 
thought that he is dead is not a strong one. It seems 
as if he were just sleeping for a little while in one 
of these rooms, and that it is not he who lies over 
there by the side of the Seine, in the glorious Tomb 
of the Invalides. It is a place in which to speak 
gently, with heads uncovered, and we salute, with 
the deepest respect, the melancholy shadow of the 
great man, which seems still to hover over all the 
huge, silent place. 



INDEX 



Abelard and Heloise, 224 

272 
Absinthe, 25 

American artist's family, An, 
181 

children in Paris, 271, 272 

girl's death, 182 
Amiens, 13-17 

Ancient thoroughfares, 116, 339 
Antoinette, Marie, Prison of, 

104 
Arc de Triomphe, 11, 39, 160 
Arras, 13-17 
Arrival in Paris, 20 
Artist folk, 44 

B 

Babies and Waffles, 67 
Ballet, The, 298 

A nude dancer, 299 
Bal Bulier, 322 
Bashkirtseff, Marie, 163, 164 

Tomb of, 164 
Bastille, Place de la, 336 

Model of, 335 
Baudelaire, 172 
Beaux-Arts, 182 
Belgium, 16, 17 
Bois, Drive in, 36 

Day in, 176 

de Vincennes, 291 
Bookstalls along river, 69 
Bourse, The, 84 
Boulevards, Women in, 100 
Boulevard Cafes, 23, 24 



Breakfast, 33 

Brussels to Paris, 12, 15, 16, 18 
'Bus, Night ride on top, 160 
Buttes-Chaumont, 221 
Buying a Gown, 294 



Cab Horses, 159 

Cabarets and Brasseries, 157, 

321 

Cab Lights, 159 

Cabmen, 36 

Cafe I'Enfant Jesus, 324 

Chalet, 177 

Ciel, 320 

Cascade, 38 

Concerts, 157 

de la Paix, 23 

Name Unknown, 30 

Rouge, 157 

Voltaire, 61 

Terrace at Suresnes, 58 
Champs Elysees, 40, 100, 159 
Characters of Fiction, 119, 122, 

123, 244 
Charenton, 283, 291, 331 

Fair, 327 
Charnavalet Musee, 335 
Chatelet Theatre, 271 
Chatou, 285 
Church and State Troubles, 262, 

275, 280, 291 
Cluny, Musee de, 266 
Cook Shops, 180 
Conciergerie, The, 102 
Convent Girls, 72 



351 



352 



INDEX 



Corot, 205 
Corridor Trains, 15 
Corday, Charlotte, 337 
Crossing Keepers, 19 
Chairs along Boulevards, 39 



D 



"Dame aux Camelias," 223 

Danton, 128 

De Amicis, 160 

Delaroche's "Dead Girl," 197, 

204 
Descartes, Rene, portrait of, 

201 
Dinner in a walled~in garden, 

243 
Double-decked trams, 44, 45 

steam trains, 240 
Duval's, 95 



Eating with napkins tucked un- 
der chins, 22 
Eiffel Tower at night, 45 
Embassadeurs, Cafe des, 322 
Evening in Paris, 24 



Galleries, People in, 213 
Galsworthy, John, 341 
Gobelin, Tapestry Establish- 
ment, 217 
Grand Hotel, 20, 21 

Prix, 329 
Guimet, Musee, 97 

H 

Holy Trinite, Church of, 140 
Hugo, Victor, 130 
Humbert, Madame, 263, 305 
Auction of property of, 305 

I 

lie de la Cite, loi 

Inns, Lunch at ancient, 124 

Queer old, 124 
Invalides, Mass at church of, 

307 

Streets and houses in vicin- 
ity, 55 

Wedding at church of, 54 
Irving, Washington, House 
where lived, 126 



Fairs, 326 

Flandrin, Frescoes of, 342 

Frangais, Theatre, 302 

French family, 88, 284, 287, 289 

funeral, 164 

dress, 269 

home, 289 

My entrance into a, 237, 
240 

"4th of July," 330 

pension, 87 

picnic, 307 
Fortifications, The, 293 
Fontainebleau, 347, 348 

Palace of, 349 
Fourth-dimensional eyes, 75 



Jardin des Plantes, 190 

Jaunt, A Sunday, 241 

Jean Valjean, Street where 

lived, 123 
Julien Studio, A visit to, 93 



La Fayette, Grave of, 231, 238 
La Trinite, Church of, 144 
Laundress, A marvel, 328 
Le Neant Cafe, 312 
Leonardo da Vinci, 193, 202 
Liberte, Egalite and Fratern- 

ite, 71 
Louvre Gallery, 75, 192, 207 

d'Apollon, 210 



INDEX 



353 



Louvre Gallery — Cont. 

Egyptian Musee in, 76, 77, 78 

Greek Sculpture in, 86 

Old Furniture in, 212 

on Sundays, 213 

Our first glimpse of, 74 

Seeing, with foreigners, 333 

Salle des Caryatides, 81, 82 

Luxembourg Gallery, 168, 171 
Gardens, Music in, 67 
Waffle Booths in, 67 

M 

Madeleine, Church of La, 138 

Malmaison, 244 

Mannequins, 295 

Mantegna, 195, 196 

Market, A Great, 147 

Marley-le-Roi, 245 

Men Greeting with K'sses, 141 

Meudon, Forest of, 309 

Michelet, Home of, 309 

Monceau, Pare, 179 

Moliere, 303 

Mona Lisa, The, 193 

Montmartre, Cemetery of, 223 

Church of, 181, 220 

Heights of, 220 

View from Heights of, i8i, 
221 
Morgue, The, 33 
Moulin Rouge, The, 21, 26, 27, 

322 
Murillo's "Immaculate Concep- 
tion," 206 
Musical Evening, A, 151 

N 

Napoleon's Funeral, 48 

room at Fontainebleau, 349 
Tomb, 47, 307 

National Library, 342 

Neuilly, Fair at, 326 

New Surroundings, My, 87, 283 

Night Silence, 158 

Nike of Samothrace, 83 



Notre Dame Cathedral, 109, iii 
View from Tower of, 114 
Flying buttresses of, 45, 113 
de-la-Consolation, 265 

Nuns, Expulsion of, 279 

Nursemaids, 98 

O 

Opera, The, 297 
Okey, T., 108 



Picardy, 18 

Paillard, Restaurant, 136 
Palais Royal, 72, 325 
Pantheon, The, 128 

Taverne du, 42 
Paris greetings, 177 

hospitality, 139 

houses, 99 

by moonlight, 42, 64 

rain storm, 84 

streets, 20, 24, 42 

street scenes, 44, 158 

Stroll Through Old Street 
of, 64, 116, 117, 124 
Pere-Lachaise, 224 
Petit Palais, 174 
Picpus, Cemetery of, 230 
Pierre de Coulevain, 22 
Place de la Concorde, ii, 85 
Procope, Cafe, 61 
Punch and Judy, 69 

R 

Races, The, 327 
Rubens, in Louvre, 205 
Ritz, Afternoon tea at, 269 
Rodin, Studios of, 309 

in Luxembourg, 172, 173 
Rossini, Funeral of, 144 
Rouge, Cafe, 158 



Sabots, 18 
Sacre-Coeur, 221 



354 



INDEX 



Sainte Chapelle, 105 

Clotilde, Church of, 141, 223 
Saint Cloud, A day at, 184 

Denis, 344 

Eugene, 138 

£tienne-du-Mont, 142 

Eustache, 145 

Germain-en-Laye, 310 

Germain, Terrace Cafe at, 
310 

Germain I'Auxerrois, 215 

Gervais, 137 

Julien-le-Pauvre, 133 

Roch, 280 

Severin, 132 

Sulpice, 141 

Vincent-de-Paul, 342 
Salon, The, 340 

Salpetriere, Hospice de la, 214 
Sardou, Home of, 245 
Seine, The, 58, 60 

at sunset, 60 

by moonlight, 42, 45 

steamers, 45, 57 

"Wash Ladies" by the, 95 
Sevres, A Day at, 185 

Quaint old Inn at, 185 

porcelain manufactory, 185 
Shop windows, 72, 274 



Shopping, 274 

Sorbonne, The, 189 

"Spits," 180 

Suresnes, By steamer to, 57 



Titian's "Entombment," 199 
Traffic officers, 40 
Trees along boulevards, 99 
Trianons, The, 257 
Tuileries Gardens, 215 



Venus de Milo, The, 74 
Versailles, 247 
Vincennes, Bois de, 291 
Violette le Due, no 
Voltaire, Funeral of, 129 

Chair of, 338 

Statues of, 303, 338 

W 

Wash ladies, 95 
Weddings, 292 
Wedding parties, 242-3 
What once existed, 75, 76 
Window tax, 89 
Working girls, 71 



H 111 89 I 



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